The Bitchster strikes again. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks.
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