"Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. It was not possible for him to have been deceived. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. . It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. 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. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him.
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