No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. 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.
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