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‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. ’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. “But about last night. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. And they pay her. “Come on in, Michelle. I will take her back. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. Her confession was still unmade.
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