“I’d never have a day of peace again, John. For my blood you made it very hot indeed. Something drew you. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. She passed people in the streets and regarded them with a quickening apprehension, once or twice came girls dressed in slatternly finery, going toward Regent Street from out these places. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly.
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