The doctor laughed. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. This time you cannot. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own.
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