’ Trodger eyed her with suspicion. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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