He hasn't found himself, as they say. She was nearly dead. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “I’ve thought about it. We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. I have it about me. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of the husband, but even to his inclinations.
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