At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. You see, it's like this. “I wonder what happened. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. It makes no difference. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. “Before I took up the Suffrage,” a firm, flat voice remarked, “I could scarcely walk up-stairs without palpitations.
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