” She replied. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. Wood, disdainfully.
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