There is a small yewtree west of the church. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. “Your sister’s future is at stake. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris.
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