’ Jack stepped out, and pushed the door to. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Drink, and no sustaining food. She would not forgive me. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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