She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. 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. ‘Alors, now I am also a murderer. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face.
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