’ ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. Only think how compromising. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Finally she fell into reflection. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy.
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