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 pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. I might have known it. So he was forced to shift and proceed at another angle, forgetting his promise to McClintock to be temperate.
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