" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. They were exquisite. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. 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. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage.
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