I could not dream of loving you. He turned his back on that temptation. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. 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 am glad,” she told herself, “I came. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan.
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