Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. 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. "Out of a family album, you said," Angelina reminded her sister. Voilà tout. What would it be without that safeguard?” Ogilvy pursued his own topic. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. ” He said. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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