She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning. And then, there would be the question of money. Mr. \" Shari drawled as she looked up from her dissected sausage.
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