“Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. My birthday was on May first. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. Ann Veronica found herself walking back down the Avenue that had just been the scene of her first proposal beside her aunt, and speculating for the first time in her life about that lady’s mental attitudes. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried.
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