‘It’s my belief she is a nun. A mosquito had been trapped inside and was perfectly preserved for thousands of years. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. You never saw him before yesterday. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world.
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