She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was.
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