She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. She felt herself getting into a corner. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. ‘Why do you think I want a man ready to run to me with every move she makes?’ countered Gerald.
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