One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. To reach the door they had to pass the end of the table, and behind the chair where Mr. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. .
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