She spoke slowly. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. He will not provide for the daughter. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed.
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