There's a hundred pounds too much. “It is a very pleasant place,” said Ann Veronica, biting a rhododendron stalk through, and with that faint shadow of a smile returning to her lips. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. Not us.
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