“Which is Mr. ” The topic of his invalid wife bored him, and he turned at once to Ann Veronica. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. This year—I’ve got it badly. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. I'm about to leave this country for ever. Wood.
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