Was she a fool to wish a person of a disposition altogether not pleasing to marry her? Was it not true that he made a game with her very often? Had he not been extremely interfering from the beginning? And had he not kissed her, just when— Her thoughts skidded to a stop. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. It was only some hours after that these ambiguous elements evaporated and vanished and loathing came, and she really began to be thoroughly sick and ashamed of the whole disgraceful quarrel and scuffle. She took it for granted Ann Veronica wore stays—mild stays, perhaps, but stays, and thought no more of the matter. “Dear husband,” she murmured. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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