Not if I read her aright. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. All the influences about her worked with her own predisposition and against all the traditions of her home and upbringing to deal with the facts of life in an unabashed manner. “Very good,” he said. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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