He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. He just walked in a few minutes ago. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. The Night-Cellar. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Then a surge of rage welled up. His expression altered. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family.
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