“You cannot! Oh, you cannot. " "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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