Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. Then I think I remarked that science was disgracefully under-endowed, and confessed I’d had to take to more profitable courses. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. She got pregnant. “Am I dull?” she said.
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