"No, no!" With a gesture, fierce and intolerant, she seized the Bible and thrust it out of sight, into the drawer. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. “Thanks, so do you. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. There was no answer. "I believe I'll tear them up. ” “It certainly was,” she admitted. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. “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. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now.
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