‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. The world is like a peppery horse. G. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. “And you?” “Same thing.
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