“Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. She seemed honestly glad to see him. "Call as you please, beloved girl," he cried, "I will not stir till I am answered. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. Here a little delay occurred. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars.
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