" The doctor relaxed. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. You must have figured that out by now. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. That's a queer yarn. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 12-09-2024 10:52:46
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