She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. It’s not like we’re getting married. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. She was listed for the raid—she was informed it was to be a raid upon the House of Commons, though no particulars were given her—and told to go alone to 14, Dexter Street, Westminster, and not to ask any policeman to direct her. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think.
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