The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. She wanted to think. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man.
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