207147but now more faintly, the echo of all that flagellation whichany woman must bear from stand fro suffer from the whips of menmen like little Mr. Tansley she remembered, as she contemplated hernext stroke. Women cant w paint, women cant write womencant create, she murmured over to herself, anxiously considering[?] what her plan of attack should be.SuddenlyAnd then, as if some juice necessary to the lubrication of herfaculties were [?] spontaneously secreted she began quit?instinctively to [?][?] tak move her brush about; to falling inagain with some rhythm, which if she suggested it,among the blue, theumber, the saffron,seemed too capable of bearing her along with it.Oh Ch Christopher - no Charles Tansley, she mused, crooninglike a kettle on the hob, the & recalling the little?co arid man whom she had last seen in this garden, verybristly, very ten years ago. He was dead - no: on the contraryhe was married; &
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