At that time, we were beneath the sway of Anne: we are now at the commencement of the reign of George the First. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. They must see the prisoner at the hatch. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. It was a cheerful, irresponsible, shamelessly hard-up family in the key of faded green and flattened purple, and the girls went on from the High School to the Fadden Art School and a bright, eventful life of art student dances, Socialist meetings, theatre galleries, talking about work, and even, at intervals, work; and ever and again they drew Ann Veronica from her sound persistent industry into the circle of these experiences.
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