She loved to be told to do things. I felt suddenly I understood you—as an intelligent person. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. I thought that you were he. He had not remembered her as looking so small. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. He was a philosopher. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “It rests with them by the nature of things.
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