“How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. The Ragged Edge.
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