She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. He is steeped in the conventions. 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. Just. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.
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