“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. “It was the night you left Paris. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. And afterward she saw a very much larger and more enthusiastic gathering, a meeting of the advanced section of the woman movement in Caxton Hall, where the same note of vast changes in progress sounded; and she went to a soiree of the Dress Reform Association and visited a Food Reform Exhibition, where imminent change was made even alarmingly visible. They set about everyone—everyone. She could not move. ‘I am not a murderer. They will say that it was murder.
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