Last night there had been no time. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She had never been so disposed to agree that the position of women in the modern world is intolerable. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. “Dear husband,” she murmured.
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