And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. You were content, and I came to thrive on your happiness. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler.
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