She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. ” He smiled at the naiveté of her suggestion. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. . Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. ‘Me, I do not need the help of anyone. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. He might solve the riddle.
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