It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. “To the view that all women ought to have votes whether they like it or not.
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