For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. “No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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