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. Leonardo he was my—’ ‘Don’t say it,’ Gerald cut in hoarsely. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ” Lucy replied, and brushed past him on the stair.
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