The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. The flush deck was without wells. “No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know. ” Pause. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages.
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