Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. Prudence was the substance and Angelina the shadow; for Angelina never offered opinions, she only agreed with those advanced by Prudence. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. “What are you doing?” he asked. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink.
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