I think you’re wrong. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. As to Mr. Moreoever, it had cost her a whipping and several days’ imprisonment in her cell on bread and water. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. She had something of the feeling a Hindoo must experience who has been into surroundings or touched something that offends his caste. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Her voice was weak and flat. ‘Let her go. "I've done nothing to offend you," persisted Jack. Stanley, “just a moment.
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