His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. Your sister! Great God, how like she is to what you were!” Annabel looked around her nervously.
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