She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. “You can keep him at arm’s length. I’ll show it to you later. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths.
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