'Not on my own account, you know,' she added.
'It's because women who are happily married can't and won't
understand the position of those who are not that there's so much
difficulty in reforming marriage laws.'
'But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are
to do I can't think.'
'Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choice
really. And I ought to have a choice; that's the hardship and the
wrong of it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure
in sacrificing myself.'
There were some new novels on the table; Amy took up a volume
presently, and glanced over a page or two.
'I don't know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff, book
after book,' she exclaimed.
'Oh, but people say this last novel of Markland's is one of his
best.'
'Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love,
love; what silly nonsense it is! Why don't people write about the
really important things of life? Some of the French novelists do;
several of Balzac's, for instance. I have just been reading his
"Cousin Pons," a terrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much
because it was nothing like a love story.
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