There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. And for me there is only one treasure-house. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey.
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