It throbs cruelly. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. “What you have done. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. 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. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.
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