” Lucy said as they walked nearer to the floodlit area of an expansive new subdivision where ground was still being broken. 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. “We don’t want things to happen!” Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head.
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