Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. Ann Veronica found herself walking back down the Avenue that had just been the scene of her first proposal beside her aunt, and speculating for the first time in her life about that lady’s mental attitudes. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. “Ann Veronica,” he said. If anyone noticed, he did not report the event. " Mr. "I feel like work," he lied. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. "Ah!" cried Wild, laying down his pen and looking up with a smile of satisfaction. At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely.
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