“Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his life. I want to make myself visible to you. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. He had, for the most part, been correct. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid.
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