The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. She could not stir hand or foot. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. She did not so much deal with Ann Veronica’s interpolations as dispose of them with quick and use-hardened repartee, and then she went on with a fine directness to sketch the case for her agitation, for that remarkable rebellion of the women that was then agitating the whole world of politics and discussion. I am bored to distraction. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. When she saw Ann Veronica she stood for a moment as if entranced, and then advanced with outstretched hands. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. I don’t think of you as a kid.
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