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. “It was a phase,” she said. . . Both the fugitive and his chasers embarked on the Thames. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. Her hair was washed for her also.
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