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. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out.
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