Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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