She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. His face darkened. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. ‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head. ‘That is settled then. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her.
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