It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. " "Can you make me honest?" cried Jack. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. The bolder members in the House left their places to go lobbyward, grinning. You are a detective?" "Yes. A door slammed. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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