“I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. ‘If you imagine you’re going to use one ungentlemanly act to manipulate me, you very much mistake the matter. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. But he has since acquitted you of any share in it. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. I suppose I ought to have been a man.
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