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An Unsocial Socialist by George Bernard Shaw
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by George Bernard Shaw


In the dusk of an October evening, a sensible looking woman of forty
came out through an oaken door to a broad landing on the first floor of
an old English country-house. A braid of her hair had fallen forward as
if she had been stooping over book or pen; and she stood for a moment
to smooth it, and to gaze contemplatively--not in the least
sentimentally--through the tall, narrow window. The sun was setting, but
its glories were at the other side of the house; for this window
looked eastward, where the landscape of sheepwalks and pasture land was
sobering at the approach of darkness.

The lady, like one to whom silence and quiet were luxuries, lingered
on the landing for some time. Then she turned towards another door, on
which was inscribed, in white letters, Class Room No. 6. Arrested by a
whispering above, she paused in the doorway, and looked up the stairs
along a broad smooth handrail that swept round in an unbroken curve at
each landing, forming an inclined plane from the top to the bottom of
the house.

A young voice, apparently mimicking someone, now came from above,
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