But the people among whom she was now thrown through the social exertions of Miss Miniver and the Widgetts—for Teddy and Hetty came up from Morningside Park and took her to an eighteen-penny dinner in Soho and introduced her to some art students, who were also Socialists, and so opened the way to an evening of meandering talk in a studio—carried with them like an atmosphere this implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately “advanced,” for the new order to achieve itself. “Then why go out with him, Michelle? Why belabor yourself?” Lucy questioned. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground. You yourself supplied the details. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe.
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