Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult.
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