The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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