“Yes,” she said, very faintly. ” Lucy cried, drawing attention from the somber crowd. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. 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 very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone.
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