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. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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