“What was that?” she asked sharply. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. “That’s the point. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place.
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