“You!” said Ann Veronica. Presently he resumed: “I believe I must be in love. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. . He moaned in excitement as his lips wrapped around the peak of her right breast. “I love some one else. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. 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. Loving was better than that. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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