"What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. . Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said.
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