"I fear not," replied Jack, despondingly. "I never told anybody," she went on. "Is it poison?" she asked. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. Yet there was nothing for her to do. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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