“Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Her mind developed into savage wrath at the present conditions of a woman’s life. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. Your glove will suffice. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration.
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