Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. But Blueskin was not to be silenced. She thought me— filthy. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “You ass and imbecile, Ann Veronica! You female cad! Cad! Cad!.
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