She was poor. Your life is like a funeral March. He hasn't found himself, as they say. 153 The halls emptied with special urgency as teens rushed forth into heated cars and buses to make the mad dash home before the coming storm. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. He laughed lightly. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. 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.
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