I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. I’ve had a headache all day. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. “You are quite right, I think.
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