Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. “My God!” he said again. 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. Here he was hotly pursued. "Let me go," cried Winifred. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. ‘I try to be. “We don’t want things to happen!” Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances. I wanted you to know. They had cried a little, both.
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