Mr. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. ‘You didn’t understand it any better than I. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. 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. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense.
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