“Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. At the expiration of an hour, by dint of unremitting exertion, he had made so large a breach in the chimney, that he could stand upright in it. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. He did not have to. He’s riding down the drive. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “I have scarcely left his side. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole.
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