Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. Kneebone and Mr. I guess they were bad all the time. He’s a salesman for AT and T, but he’s never made a lot of money. Why were you following Valade?’ She shrugged and turned away, moving as if to seek escape among the bookshelves all about one corner of the room. Then instinct took over. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. 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. If she kept on, would she make it out of the door? Then what? He could come after her before she could reach the secret passage. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned.
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