We dine at seven-thirty. “You are coming right out into life—facing it all. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. What isn’t a day-dream is this: that you and I are going to put an end to flummery—and go!” “Go!” said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands. “Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily. “Thank you, ma’am. John picked it up and put it in her hands. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop. Suddenly all this makes you human. How will we get there, I’d like to know? We’ve no money. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again.
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