’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. " "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid.
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