"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. 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. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. I am sure. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money.
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