On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity.
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