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“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. She stared
down at them from a high window, peering down at their
moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed
where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. I have
written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. She was still more stirred
by the idea of the equal citizenship of men and women, by the realization that a
big and growing organization of women were giving form and a generalized
expression to just that personal pride, that aspiration for personal freedom and
respect which had brought her to London; but when she heard Miss Miniver
discoursing on the next step in the suffrage campaign, or read of women
badgering Cabinet Ministers, padlocked to railings, or getting up in a public
meeting to pipe out a demand for votes and be carried out kicking and
screaming, her soul revolted. He grew more ardent, sliding her
breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 01-07-2024 00:28:57