They have no ideas what to do with us. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. 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. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger.
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