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. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down.
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