She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. I am your very dutiful niece, aunt, and your most devoted sister, Annabel. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Sebastian returned to find her blood dripping into the crucible. “We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed. 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.
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