He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. 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. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts.
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