“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. They are not your children, they never were. I am come to serve you. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. And Pottiswick, of course. White gasped, and then stiffened. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life.
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