167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. ” He pushed her a dozen yards along the greasy pavement with flat, well-trained hands that there seemed to be no opposing. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Only she sent me a message, and together we found a cottage for her to stay at. She became at times an embodiment for Ann Veronica of all that made the suffrage movement defective and unsatisfying.
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