"The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. . There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. “I find it very hard to write this letter. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter.
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