“Dear husband,” she murmured. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. It wouldn’t be you. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Voilà tout. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I’m a man, and I know what I mean. “I have been very selfish,” she declared.
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