I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. He opened the drawer of the writing table. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. Manning regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and stroked his mustache. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters.
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