Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. Spurling and Austin at their evening meal, with Caliban in attendance. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her. “After all,” she said, “if this person will not be reasonable, I am afraid——” It was enough. "I should be perfectly miserable if I thought you in earnest. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself.
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