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She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. “We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say.
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