“Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. You'll be wasting his time. He knocked on the doorframe. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. She became more and more alive, not so much to a system of ideas as to a big diffused impulse toward change, to a great discontent with and criticism of life as it is lived, to a clamorous confusion of ideas for reconstruction—reconstruction of the methods of business, of economic development, of the rules of property, of the status of children, of the clothing and feeding and teaching of every one; she developed a quite exaggerated consciousness of a multitude of people going about the swarming spaces of London with their minds full, their talk and gestures full, their very clothing charged with the suggestion of the urgency of this pervasive project of alteration. The relationship seemed to have almost as much to do with blood and body as a mortgage.
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