“Let’s go. 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. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. . Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. Opals.
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