There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. Moreover, he's a Yale University man, and he'd be good company. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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