Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. It was Missy and Michelle in her grandmother's old Buick. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. I don’t defend it. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission.
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