There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. She had been careless. Her head ached with a hollow pain. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. The women’s meeting was much more charged with emotional force than the Socialists’. No, don’t interrupt me. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. ’ ‘About me?’ The lady’s lashes fluttered and her fan came up. Upon the steps leading to the gates of the church stood two persons whom Jack instantly recognised.
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