“Is this a concession to Mrs. Don't feel fussed upon my account. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. gutenberg. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. You called yourself a murderess. He'll mend, I hope. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea. She wanted to live. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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