She had almost chosen to prostitute herself rather than live in that animal state once, but had found a warm cave in Kentucky just as situations had grown truly desperate. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. Don't worry about me.
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