There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. “WHAT a place! “Stuffy isn’t the word for it. ” “Couldn’t I make a treaty?” Ann Veronica thought, and could not see any possible treaty that would leave it open for her to have quasi-surreptitious dinners with Ramage or go on walking round the London squares discussing Socialism with Miss Miniver toward the small hours. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London.
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