To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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