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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

Capes had changed into the easiest and jolliest companion in the world. 

The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, 

sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat 

within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their 

fellow passengers would hear it. It was too good to be true. She would 

not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. To 

walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was 

bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across 

the threshold of heaven. 

 

One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth 

of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought 

of her father. 

 

She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done 

wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she 

had done right. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt 

with her Patience, as she had seen them--how many ages was it ago? Just 

one day intervened. She felt as if she had struck them unawares. The 

thought of them distressed her without subtracting at all from the 

oceans of happiness in which she swam. But she wished she could put the 

thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them 

so much as the truth would certainly do. The thought of their faces, 

and particularly of her aunt's, as it would meet the fact--disconcerted, 

unfriendly, condemning, pained--occurred to her again and again. 

 

"Oh! I wish," she said, "that people thought alike about these things." 

 

Capes watched the limpid water dripping from his oar. "I wish they did," 

he said, "but they don't." 

 

"I feel--All this is the rightest of all conceivable things. I want to 

tell every one. I want to boast myself." 

 

"I know." 

 

"I told them a lie. I told them lies. I wrote three letters yesterday 

and tore them up. It was so hopeless to put it to them. At last--I told 

a story." 

 

"You didn't tell them our position?" 

 

"I implied we had married." 

 

"They'll find out. They'll know." 

 

"Not yet." 

 

"Sooner or later." 

 

"Possibly--bit by bit.... But it was hopelessly hard to put. I said 

I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work--that you shared 

all Russell's opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure--and that we 

couldn't possibly face a conventional marriage. What else could one say? 


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