If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. “Which is Mr. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. She was very greatly exercised by the two systems of values—the two series of explanations that her comparative anatomy on the one hand and her sense of beauty on the other, set going in her thoughts. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. She could feel her face turning beet red. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. One must get them with exactly the same intensity. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. She makes catty comments about you to her friends if you are within hearing distance—that’s her thing—then if you are brave enough to confront her, she just denies it all and laughs at you.
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