All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. Strange, I could never learn her history. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being.
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