She always dawdled, so it was easy. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. But what a monster was this Emile. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. They were only passers-by. I will arise myself. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. It has all been a mistake. She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”.
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