The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “I find it very hard to write this letter. 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.
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