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She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. “They might do you good,” she remarked. ” “No, that’s okay. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. She would not forgive me.
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