Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. The smile had become a laugh. Smith had never seen anything like it. “How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice. . How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission.
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