She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. Oh, you must believe me. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. . Many little things had contributed to that decision. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused.
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