I can’t forget about your sister. CHAPTER X. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions.
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