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The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. ’ She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald understood her to mean the English name he knew.
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