She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. We must always move on. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night.
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