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Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. She pulled the trigger. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. They began to wrestle fiercely. Then she saw him. ‘You said it. I am a thing to be used. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. ” She rested the firing end of the cannon against her own temple.
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