Love is one thing and friendship quite another. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo.
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