Beethoven; he’s the best of them. He—” “Here they are!” said Ann Veronica as the bell sounded. Ruth returned to the table. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park.
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