” He retorted smartly, looking at her with mischief. It filled her with indefinable fear. Naturally he was a member of the National Honor Society and a straight A student on the Honor Roll. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. "But, I own, I think it is like. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. " "You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey. “Good God!” he exclaimed. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. A young man turned to pay the cabman. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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