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. Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. “Before I heard much Wagnerian music I heard enthusiastic descriptions of it from a mistress I didn’t like at school. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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