For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. She cried out with the pain of it. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. Get on with it, then. “I ought to have done. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. There is something inconglomerate about us.
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