“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. “He is very kind, Anna, really, and not half such a prig as he seems. She sensed a pelvic exam coming on. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. "That's well. There was something indeed holding the whole species back from the imaginable largeness of life. And, if ever I'm brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened.
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