Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. “Wise! Kind! What mockery words are! I came because I had to. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Sydney Courtlaw, live here, please?” Anna asked him. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. "Do you submit?" interrogated Wild.
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