some way...." For the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair.
"Still," she thought, "when the men come back, I suppose most of the women will have to go.

Of course, the men must have their places back, but you'd think there was some way ...

some way...." In fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped.
"It's silly, of course," she thoughtfully added, "and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies.

But--the way some of the men act--you'd almost think they believed it...." She thought of Uncle Stanley and has son.

At his own request, Burdon had been transferred to the New York office and Mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home--"with a sort of a headache." "And Uncle Stanley, too," she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness.