She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. She were that miserable. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have your own way.
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