I’m rather scornful. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom— especially the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit. “How are you feeling?” She asked.
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