That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. ’ She paused, holding her nurse’s eyes. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night.
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