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Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. 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. Her eyes followed him. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. “I’m not that beautiful. “Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. That's a queer yarn.
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