His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. She gurgled. 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. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock.
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