It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Brown or Jones, I dare say. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. In truth, she liked Gerald also. . “Call me Annabel. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes.
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