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ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. The weed was all right. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. If this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her friend. You really are extremely stupid, Melusine.
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