Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. For she needed him. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. Manning, all this sort of thing is very well as sentiment, but does it correspond with the realities? Are women truly such angelic things and men so chivalrous? You men have, I know, meant to make us Queens and Goddesses, but in practice—well, look, for example, at the stream of girls one meets going to work of a morning, round-shouldered, cheap, and underfed! They aren’t queens, and no one is treating them as queens. Blueskin is booked. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. ” The redness in his face betrayed him.
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