"I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. They did not want her. The general propositions of Socialism, for example, struck her as admirable, but she certainly did not extend her admiration to any of its exponents. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street.
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