‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. People think it is, but they are wrong. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile.
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