” “Yes. We did not know where to send … in case you died. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. I suppose we’re all human beings really, but what price the sacred Institution of the Family! Us as a bundle! Eh?. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. Gerald stayed him. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. ” She stepped into the curtains as Martin stared daggers.
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