There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. ” Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father’s note in her hand. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. You have told me that you cared. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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