And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. “Beats me. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. Hang the wench! Roding was right. All her life Martha had been there. This business of love is the supreme affair in life, it is the woman’s one event and crisis that makes up for all her other restrictions, and I cower—as we all cower—with a blushing and paralyzed mind until it overtakes me!.
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