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Some day, when the rewards of literature permit the arduous research required, the Campaign of the Women will find its Carlyle, and the particulars of that marvellous series of exploits by which Miss Brett and her colleagues nagged the whole Western world into the discussion of women’s position become the material for the most delightful and amazing descriptions. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. Miss Ellicot, for instance, considers me a most improper person. She had been so young then. . “I have the right to be here.
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