“You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. There stepped forth a tall brown man. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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