"Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question. "Do you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I please—eh?" "Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had better. "Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. A creeping numbness invaded her. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “Happened! Oh, many things,” she declared indolently. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice.
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