Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. . She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. ‘You talk together of me as if I am not there. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites.
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