It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. F. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her force to repel his advances. It must have cut him. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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