She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Delight surged through her as her breasts, shoulders, and belly touched his naked flesh all at once. Then her fingers moved. It was an impulse. But he knew. But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey. It depresses one, you know.
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