She dare not risk it. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. 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. Fortescue, with a bow.
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