Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. You will go out at once, if you please. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. 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. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say.
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