‘Here we go again. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. We made sure it was just like Gwen. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. Anything. Her head snapped back as he grabbed her by the hair. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. “I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled.
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