She tried to scream, \"I'm coming to you, Mama!\" But no sound would come from her mouth. 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. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. “Are we interrupting anything?” “No!” Martin jumped slightly. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. ‘Looks like it.
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