I'll have a peep at him, if I die for it," she muttered, as she went out. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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