Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. "Practising singing, Aaron," replied Jack. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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