He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. 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. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. Sir Rowland then fell.
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