Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity.
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