"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her want of experience. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it.
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