“I am lonely. And girls and women, perhaps, are different. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. I would have married her long ago, but she will not have me. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order.
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