But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. Cut it as short as you can.
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