It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. ‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs Ibstock. " "Never!" shrieked Mrs. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. But if only you will come I do not care. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand.
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