The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Suddenly he stopped short. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Then he had gone away. Not if I read her aright. He still watched her and questioned her.
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