‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. She had a nut-brown skin, a swarthy upper lip, a merry black eye, a prominent bust, and a tun-like circumference of waist. 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. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin.
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