“I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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