He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. He always followed by showering her with kisses, embracing her tightly as she squirmed and giggled. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. ‘What a fate he finds for me. She got up and unlocked the door. He understood.
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