She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “If I were to marry now,” she said, “it would be with a sense of humiliation. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy.
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