There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. It was locked. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. Oh! that Mr. His number was unlisted and unpublished. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling.
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