She’s right upstairs. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. ” Capes looked at his wife’s unsmiling face. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. “It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr.
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