‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. “This has almost killed your father. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. “Dear husband,” she murmured. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. “Leave them!” He yelled. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. How will we get there, I’d like to know? We’ve no money.
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