‘Where was I? Oh yes. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. The twenty pounds burned with avidity.
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