The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Yet, I suppose that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room.
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