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The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. Ennison had disappeared. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. I rarely set foot in London these days. Her cargo is nearly shipped.
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