“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. They stopped talking, except to each other. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. “Sold again,” she remarked. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. What you would look upon as immorality is here merely an established custom, three thousand years older than Christianity, accepted with no more ado than that which would accompany you should you become a clerk in a shop.
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