“And, you know, you’re altering us all. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. He's a nice boy, a good student. ” “Wait,” she said. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. Mere formality.
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