She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. "I might return the question. ’ ‘He doesn’t sound like a desirable parti. ” “It would be very kind of you,” she declared. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. Ramage admitted the force of that.
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