She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. No! That was impossible. . He was tender with her as he had not been in years. I am a little afraid.
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