The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. Wood, sharply. Only au revoir. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly.
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