She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. ’ ‘Distract me? She nigh on gave me an apoplexy. A fever of shame ran through her being. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along. One has to be so careful. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. “Go on!” she commanded. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “I ought never have gone to the Zoo, I suppose. Run along now; but return in half an hour. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel.
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