His food lay untouched about his plate. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk.
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