Now, Sir. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.
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