Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Quite!” He sat in the arm-chair and took tea, and consumed several of the extra cakes which she had sent out for and talked to her and expressed himself, looking very earnestly at her with his deep-set eyes, and carefully avoiding any crumbs on his mustache the while. “Why not? Isn’t the whole thing a lie? Isn’t her reputation, this husband of hers, the ‘Alcide’ business, isn’t it all a cursed juggle? She hasn’t the right to do it.
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