It would be too mortifying. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo.
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