There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. 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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