The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates.
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