But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed.
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