As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. “Let me see,” he said. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. “Am I becoming reasonable or am I being tamed? “I’m simply discovering that life is many-sided and complex and puzzling. “What are your objections?” she said. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. .
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