” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. 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. She was reasonably certain why. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. " The Wastrel tried to reach Ruth's lips. He had been quite right to sit down. ‘Ah, yes,’ Gerald said, jumping down from the coach and waiting for the fellow to let down the steps for Melusine, ‘I had forgotten about you. I HAD to. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. It simply doesn’t count.
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