She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Life is morality—life is adventure. Then she and her husband went off to a Yorkshire practice, and had four more babies, none of whom photographed well, and so she passed beyond the sphere of Ann Veronica’s sympathies altogether. . It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. She knew the truth of it all right. “How is that carmine working?” he asked, with a forced interest. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. He had not to wait long. And then: “Of course! Always. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Somehow.
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