One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. “I am sick of it. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. But none ever puts his foot on this boat.
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