She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. 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. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. “All of which doesn’t help me in the slightest degree to pay back that money. Lucy could see Diane’s clear dislike of her, the foster background she had come from, and the single mysterious episode with the police that had inflamed the gossips from all the corners of town. “But I must, I will,” he answered fiercely. Chairs were overturned. You wanted to play a lone hand.
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