‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. Then you may have a bit of a chance. No one will ever love you as I love you now. It'll be your turn to save mine next. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them.
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