She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. I want you to be my wife. And now her father said she must not go. He carried a small bag. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. “Punctual.
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