“Certainly I was a little way off at the café, and she had a hat and veil on, but I could have sworn that it was ‘Alcide. Not MY affair. But tell her this, too. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. . ” His eyes were closed. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. 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.
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