Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. John, I have something to say to you. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. . ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. "Is it poison?" she asked. 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.
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