Then she goes to a dramatic agent. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome.
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