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’ ‘Oh, yes I do,’ Martha said, getting up off the bed. But it was hopelessly hard to put. She pulled at his tee shirt again, wishing to feel his naked chest upon hers. “I do want you. ” “It is within yours—if anybody’s,” he answered. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Bête, she told herself fiercely. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. Just then—I was nervous. She stared at his pleading face.
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