She took to listening through closed doors. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. She felt sleepy and unusually irritable. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. ” “Sure thing, kid. ‘Say it. ‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten.
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