Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. The flu attacked my reproductive organs and caused me to expel my 194 female parts. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door.
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