The teacher turned towards the blackboard to inscribe the names of Capulet and Montague. He went to Harvard instead. 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. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me.
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