I'm nothing in God's world but a
possession of hers! A trophy of sorts, an ornament. I'm something she's
made. I have a hell of a big practise. I'm the most fashionable doctor
in Chicago. They come here, the women, damn them, in shoals. That's
Eleanor's doing. I'm a faker, a fraud, a damned actor. I pose for them.
I play up. I give them what they want. And that's her doing. They go
silly about me; fancy they're in love with me. That's what she wants
them to do. It increases my value for her as a possession.
"I haven't done a lick of honest work in the last year. I can't work.
She won't let me work. She--smothers me. Wherever I turn, there she is,
smoothing things out, trying to making it easy, trying to anticipate my
wants. I've only one want. That's to be let alone. She can't do that.
She's insatiable. She can't help it. There's something drives her on so
that she never can feel sure that she possesses me completely enough.
There's always something more she's trying to get, and I'm always trying
to keep something away from her, and failing.
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