It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. “I like to think of your offer. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. “Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy.
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