” She said. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “He is a sad blunderer. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. Don't lay it all to the boy. The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted. There was a photo of her that looked exactly like you. 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.
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