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. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. “Dear me!” he said. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. “After all, why should he be surprised?” she remarked. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. Rules are for established things, like the pieces and positions of a game.
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