She paused. And look down, so. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. I could tell it was Italian, you see. I knew it. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Instead of which they walked sharply. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years.
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