"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. The expression pervading the countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely found, except in persons of high birth. ‘It must be painful.
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