The cause of this uproar was soon manifest. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. But no more of that. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. Now lend me your own hand. “Really,” she said. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica.
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