When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts. ‘I do not understand you. I do not know how I shall get it, but I must, you understand. In her endeavour to follow him, Aliva met with a severe fall, and was conveyed away, in a state of insensibility, by Sir Cecil. 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. That’s the wonder of it. ‘They cannot help it.
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