She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Stanley took mustard savagely.
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