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She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller.
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