What isn’t a day-dream is this: that you and I are going to put an end to flummery—and go!” “Go!” said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands. If you can imagine it, I survived it. “Yes. Contests were held every year, the type of which depended on her caprice. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief.
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