She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. "To-morrow it will be mine. “Why aren’t you in Orchestra, Lucy?” “I just. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. 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.
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