She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. He bore it as long as he could, watching all the time with fascinated eyes Annabel moving gracefully about amongst her guests, always gay, with a smile and a whisper for nearly everybody. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. "You hesitate—you are deceiving me.
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