Wood. “Just look that through, will you. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. 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. Indeed, a note of weeping broke her voice for a moment as she burst out, “You know as well as I do that money was a loan!” “Loan!” “You yourself called it a loan!” “Euphuism. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was.
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