She had very frizzy hair indeed, very black eyebrows, a profusion of metallic adornments about her neck and waist, and an engaging smile. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. “Then you—you will?” A long pause. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. Damn! I’ve splashed. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. She felt flattered. Mike answered the door while still toweling his hands dry. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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