Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. She ignored it until it repeated itself. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to.
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