One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. Wood. 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. "He acts queerly, too. “You have forgotten. He did not explain what had happened to her. “Wonderful!” “I have always longed for prison service,” said a voice, “always. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish.
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