The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. 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. ‘I must get a handkerchief. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. ” She looked around the apartment again. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. They give themselves airs, but so it is.
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