She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. “Dear me!” he said. "Constance is yet living. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. But if that can possibly be done I want it to be done. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s.
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