Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Let me lend you some money. However, it doesn't much signify. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. I don’t. ” His voice assumed an easy detached tone. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. "If you mean to accompany us, you may need it. I'm hungry.
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