Sydney sprang up. 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. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. “I only use the weeniest little dab of rouge,” she declared, “and it is really necessary, because I want to get rid of the ‘pallor effect. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue.
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