“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild. She crooked her finger.
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