He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers. He was a philosopher. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow. Listen, it is I. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. Oh, it is unbearable.
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