3. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. .
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