” Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. Ennison, or any other young man. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. Can it ever be so good again?” Ann Veronica put out a firm hand and squeezed his arm. It was now a quarter past twelve. She wanted to think. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance.
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