It was only when Study Hall was over that Lucy turned her head. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. Her little bedsitting-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. Go to her. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. We went our ways. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. I met a Hindu a few weeks ago who was a Harvard man. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Ann Veronica looked bright and a little elated, and she disregarded her father’s invitation to be seated. It had been a trying day. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant.
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