” She sat motionless, with her hand tightening over the edge of the table, and he, too, said no more. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals.
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