She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. A lovely, fetching girl. \"No, I think he just broke up with someone. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. He stood transfixed.
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