To-night all London believes that he was your husband. You will find it somewhere in that book. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. He uttered her name and his excitement grew when he did not feel a bra. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms.
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