Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. 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. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. With some difficulty, they managed to negotiate the passage with their burden and carry him out into the library. So it is that I do not do these things.
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