But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. Then I saw Mrs. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick.
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