There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Ann Veronica found herself in the presence of the most disconcerting fact in human experience, the kindliness of people you believe to be thoroughly wrong. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. "I'd lay down my life for yours.
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