She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. "This suspense is worse than torture. Besides the table close by loaded with books, there was a central table with upright chairs around, covered in a multitude of papers, inks and quills, and assorted unrelated items such as playing cards. Good night. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. How men suffer for the foolish things they do!" "Ay to that. He remained talking with her however. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. So there is no escape.
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