A
sacrifice. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of
forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She was still more stirred
by the idea of the equal citizenship of men and women, by the realization that a
big and growing organization of women were giving form and a generalized
expression to just that personal pride, that aspiration for personal freedom and
respect which had brought her to London; but when she heard Miss Miniver
discoursing on the next step in the suffrage campaign, or read of women
badgering Cabinet Ministers, padlocked to railings, or getting up in a public
meeting to pipe out a demand for votes and be carried out kicking and
screaming, her soul revolted. "
"Where did you go to school?" Prudence asked, seeking a new channel, for the
old one appeared to be full of hidden reefs. Her hands wove
through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. All the
events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been
unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as
severely as if he had been her actual murderer. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. Not if I read her aright. Anna failed in her painting, our
money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, "I
have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died
last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach
you. Then she
slowly straightened, releasing him. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?"
"Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 30-06-2024 15:53:32