Have you not tired of sadness and pain?” 81 She thought she could hear tears in his voice but would not look at him. This gloom was impossible. "The poor young man!" she said. 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. “So Mr. . Still unconscious of anything he did physically.
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