She had no place she loved. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. Jackson, gallantly. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. 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. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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