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Table of contents
ANN VERONICA TALKS TO HER FATHER-1-2
ANN VERONICA TALKS TO HER FATHER-3-4
ANN VERONICA TALKS TO HER FATHER-5-6
ANN VERONICA TALKS TO HER FATHER-7
ANN VERONICA GATHERS POINTS OF VIEW-1-2
ANN VERONICA GATHERS POINTS OF VIEW-3
THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS-1-2
THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS-3-4-5
THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS-6-7
THE CRISIS-1-2-3-4
THE FLIGHT TO LONDON-1-2-3
THE FLIGHT TO LONDON-4-5-6
EXPOSTULATIONS-1-2-3-4
EXPOSTULATIONS-5-6
IDEALS AND A REALITY-1-2
IDEALS AND A REALITY-3-4
IDEALS AND A REALITY-5-6-7
BIOLOGY-1-2
BIOLOGY-3-4-5-6
BIOLOGY-7-8-9
DISCORDS-1
DISCORDS-2-3-4
DISCORDS-5-6-8-9
THE SUFFRAGETTES-1-2-3
THE SUFFRAGETTES-4-5
THOUGHTS IN PRISON-1-2-3-4-5-6
ANN VERONICA PUTS THINGS IN ORDER-1-2-3-4-5-6-7
THE SAPPHIRE RING-1-2-3-4
THE SAPPHIRE RING-5-6
THE COLLAPSE OF THE PENITENT-1-2-3
THE COLLAPSE OF THE PENITENT-4-5-6
THE LAST DAYS AT HOME-1-2-3
IN THE MOUNTAINS-1-2-3-4
IN THE MOUNTAINS-5-6-7-8-9-10-11
IN PERSPECTIVE-1-2-3

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH 

 

IDEALS AND A REALITY 

 

 

Part 1 

 

 

And now for some weeks Ann Veronica was to test her market value in the 

world. She went about in a negligent November London that had become 

very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find 

that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She 

went about, intent-looking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing 

her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened 

out before her. Her little bed-sitting-room was like a lair, and she 

went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, 

its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit 

windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an 

animal goes out to seek food. She would come back and write letters, 

carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched 

from Mudie's--she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie's--or sit over 

her fire and think. 

 

Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what 

is called an "ideal." There were no such girls and no such positions. No 

work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated 

for herself. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief 

channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither 

seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to 

mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. 

One main avenue was for her to become a sort of salaried accessory wife 

or mother, to be a governess or an assistant schoolmistress, or a very 

high type of governess-nurse. The other was to go into business--into a 

photographer's reception-room, for example, or a costumer's or hat-shop. 

The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic 

and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her 

want of experience. And also she didn't like them. She didn't like the 

shops, she didn't like the other women's faces; she thought the 

smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the 

most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. One called her very 

distinctly "My dear!" 

 

Two secretarial posts did indeed seem to offer themselves in which, at 

least, there was no specific exclusion of womanhood; one was under 

a Radical Member of Parliament, and the other under a Harley Street 

doctor, and both men declined her proffered services with the utmost 


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