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. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Better to remain silent. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. Wild. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless.
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