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Mirrors. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. We simply can’t get away. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. ” “But—” “He left her alone.
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