She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. " "'Zounds! Captain, I shall get my death of cold. . ‘I’m on your side. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling. Some have no males. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. .
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