I don’t think women need to trouble about political questions. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. Now let us forget it.
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