She was beautiful once, Lucia. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. I’m a female thing at bottom. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words.
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