EPOCH THE THIRD. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. 266 She peered up at him. He was mad. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. She wanted him so badly it hurt. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Everything was going to hell.
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