Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically. ‘Come, cry a truce. “Why don’t you?” “Well, it might mean rather a row. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them.
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