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. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “As I have explained many a time, Lucia, the maladies of the blood and flesh do not afflict us. Me, I have a question for you first.
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