The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. She glanced into his face. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ” She gave herself permission now to look at this squarely. His two wives have been here. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order.
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