Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. She gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. You can, too, if you wish. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being.
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