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The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. ” “I know.
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