“What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. “Take her limbs again. It might prove rewarding. "To the world's end," answered Jack, darting after him. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr.
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