He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. 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. He envied her a little. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. ‘Don’t concern yourself. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland.
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