She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. Sheppard staggered forward. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. “You will go and see her,” he begged. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her want of experience. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips.
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