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"Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. "Look at it!" he felt like screaming. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. 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. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute.
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