And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Wood was once a favourite of yours. 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. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. She did not know herself. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular.
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