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. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Ruth loved him. It was from Brendon. Before the congregation separated, the clergyman descended from the pulpit; and, followed by the coffin-bearers and mourners, and by Jack at a respectful distance, entered the churchyard. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
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