” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. "I disown you. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. Jackson’s. She struggled against it quite uselessly.
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