Part 6 When Ann Veronica reached her little bed-sitting-room again, every nerve in her body was quivering with shame and self-disgust. 'Avow nothing, believe nothing, give nothing for nothing,' is my own motto. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Goopes when at home dressed simply in a pajama-shaped suit of canvas sacking tied with brown ribbons, while his wife wore a purple djibbah with a richly embroidered yoke. 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. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased.
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