Not alone with her, that’s sure. News was sent back home, and in October, Marina traveled to Florence to live with her daughter again. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated.
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