“It’s—private. What sort of a human being are you, anyhow?" Enschede gazed seaward. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. What had been happening all this time? ‘Do you tell me he has not again left his apartment?’ ‘Only to go to some party or other Monday night,’ Kimble said. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic.
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