The servants had left the room. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels. "You are my prisoner. 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. She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction.
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