One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I said intensity of perception. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature.
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