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"I do," replied Jack, carelessly. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. “Yeah, where the hell were you? My friends would have driven you home when I came home if I could have found you. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. . I believe I am getting impudent. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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