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He'll mend, I hope. “I didn’t ask you to get married. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her. 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. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. As he turned the handle, it moved, and the door was taken from his hand and pulled outward by the young footman.
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