“You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t. 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. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. ” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. ‘Melusine.
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