She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. “What can I do?” “Go and see her. “I love you, Ann Veronica. He kissed her at the door. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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