‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. Tell me. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. Better take these sandwiches. "I hope not. She agreed entirely with her brother. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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