They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head.
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