“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. He looked at her, hurt. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy. Let’s go on climbing now.
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