Stanley, at the door. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. I have been very foolish, but it is over. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present.
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