“You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. “Believe me, I know. 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 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. ” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness.
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