It was a mass of knick-knacks. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Here one might live the life of golden days. It’s all nonsense. 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. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. Not my affair, of course, but I think we ought to teach them more or restrain them more.
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