She found herself looking sheepishly around the bedroom when a sudden tingle of electricity moved from her groin, fanning out from her belly. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. She leaned back as he climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth again. “Do you mean in looks?” she asked. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough.
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