“You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. ’ He smiled down at her. No, don’t interrupt me. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile.
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