A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. "Do you think I would take a harlot to my bed, if it didn't suit my purposes to do so?" "He says right," replied Mrs. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. It was horrible. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. ” “They were my posters,” Annabel said.
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