But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts.
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