Go, and let him in. Before he even glanced at the man on the floor he stepped over to her side and took the poker from her. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. 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. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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