Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual. " Trenchard took up a pen. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. . She used to play violin, you know. Ramage,” she cried, “you are outrageous! You understand nothing. 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.
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