She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. I think you are hard. Enjoy. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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