” “Then, whoever he may be, he is not Meysey Hill,” Courtlaw said. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. All in a moment. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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