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The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. After a brief conversation, which Sheppard sustained with his accustomed liveliness, the old man turned to Bess and addressed a few words of common-place gallantry to her. I’m behaving shockingly, I know. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. “Women are mocked,” she said. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. . I found a blue stone on the beach once.

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