“You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. “Women ought to be gentle and submissive persons, strong only in virtue and in resistance to evil compulsion. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. " "You don't remember your mother?" "Oh, no; she died when I was very little. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. Critically, she stared at her own features. She had nothing to say for herself.
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