She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “I want to find an address. ” She stopped. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Profligate women are never reclaimed. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. So long as she stood beside him, the Hand would not prevail.
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