’ Joan sniffed. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. “Very big steps, moves fast. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled.
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