He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. You are my prisoner, murderer. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. ” He mumbled, driving on.
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