To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. You would not have believed me, I know well. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. “We don’t want things to happen!” Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly.
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