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. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. .
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