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    Software name: appdown
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      And then the lights went on.

      "Where are you going?""Yes, ma'am."

      "Oh, I dunno. I just look at him like this with my eyes half shut. Then if that isn't enough I part my lipsso."She was sobered. Her attitude towards things insensibly alteredto her husband, her child, her servants she was different, and yet in such a manner that none could possibly lay hands on the difference. Reuben's jealousies and suspicions were increased. She avoided Handshut, and she flourished the shopmen and clerks but feebly, yet he mistrusted her in a way he had never done when her enthusiasms were flagrant. This was not due to any psychological deduction, rather to a vague kind of guess, an intuition, an uneasiness that communicated itself from her to him.


      She sometimes asked herself if she loved him, and in cold blood there was only one answer to that questionNo. What she felt for him was not love, but obsessionif she had never loved she might have mistaken it, but with her memories of Harry she could not. And the awful part of it was that her heart was still Harry's, though everything else was Reuben's. Her desires, her thoughts, her will were all Reuben'sby a slow remorseless process he was making them his ownbut her heart,[Pg 67] the loving, suffering part of her, was still Harry's, and might always be his.


      Chapter 13


      She felt as one whose memory calls and yet has nothing to remember, whose thoughts run to and fro and yet has nothing to think of, whose hopes pile themselves, and yet is hopeless, whose love cries out from the depths, and yet is loveless.


      His face was a network of wrinkles. He was not the sort of countryman whose skin old age stretches smoothly over the bones and reddens benignly as a sun-warmed apple. On the contrary, he had grown swarthier with the years, the ruddy tints had been hardened into the brown, and from everywhere, from the corners of his eyes, of his mouth, of his nose, across his forehead, along his cheeks, under his chin, spread a web of lines, some mere hair-tracery on the surface, others wrinkled deep, others ploughed in like the furrows of his own fields.