Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. " And he strode out of the place. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. “What did it matter?” she cried. “Absolutely,” the doctor answered, “and the sooner the better. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. “Call me Cathy, John. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. You don’t deserve it, but he does. Voilà tout. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. My foster mom works there as a second job.
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