But now Ann Veronica knew what was the matter with her. The old-fashioned dress, with its series
of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned
leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould. Such pretty
manners, she thought. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid,
patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a
pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last
century, and some other articles of female attire. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll
have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. ” He said. The arrest of this person is of
consequence to me. And I’ve read, and thought,
and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time
in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little
book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy. All I had to do was to piece
them together.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 30-06-2024 10:13:44