McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. 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. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband.
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