‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. 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. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love.
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