But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. She wanted to turn him. She laughed. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. “What are you doing?” he asked.
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