See the new litter of Mrs. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. Only a book detective could dope this out. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like. 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’ve got a lot of things to think about.
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