‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. 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. The other lay unconscious in a heap. She was beautiful once, Lucia. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved. Nor Jacques. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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