“What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. The fever came. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. Had he not said so? Not that she wished him to marry her. 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. Because every mistake you make, for every new mishap, Joe, I take a finger.
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