In the corner of the room were two hockey-sticks and a tennis-racket, and upon the walls Ann Veronica, by means of autotypes, had indicated her proclivities in art. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. The air was crisp and dry.
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