Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. She became at times an embodiment for Ann Veronica of all that made the suffrage movement defective and unsatisfying. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. He was the junior of both his sisters, co-educated and much broken in to feminine society. He was now a sophomore at Lincoln, Lucy a Junior, and Shari a Senior.
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