Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. Sc. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things.
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