With an open hand, he slapped her face. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response.
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