She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. . Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—the utter perversion of his principles—half-finished. Denis.
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