Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. 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. “I want to be a Person,” said Ann Veronica to the downs and the open sky; “I will not have this happen to me, whatever else may happen in its place.
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