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. She passed down the stairs and into the street. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. Then the distant relationship to Miss Stanley gave them a slight but pleasant sense of proprietorship in the girl. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered.
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