She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end.
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