Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. Life seemed a very brave and glorious enterprise to Ann Veronica that day. “Please don’t,” she said.
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