But she had loved the man. ” “Got a photograph of him or anything?” said Ann Veronica, after kissing her mother. There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it. 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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