He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. A fever of shame ran through her being. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane.
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