She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. ‘One would take it that the house had been ransacked. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. Even if you were sick in the mind and did not understand what you were doing, it's a mighty cruel thing you have done. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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