What would you? I cannot fight them all. Like the flaws of an old marble. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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