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. ” Mr. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. Supper was over. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. " CHAPTER VI.
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