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. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. We made sure it was just like Gwen. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful.
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