Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. Good riddance. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble.
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