McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It’s me! You know—Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver might be. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. An hour was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan Wild. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there.
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