“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. "The part was crooked," she explained. 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. But I waited in vain.
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