Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “You wouldn’t. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. He is coming here to tea. And Teddy declared himself ready to go to the ends of the earth for her, and carry her luggage all the way. 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. Such a time that it takes for them to go. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again.
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