Her voice was weak and flat. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. It is positively hateful to think of it. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. “I wouldn’t make this objection,” Mr.
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