Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. I’m not discussing Shakespeare.
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