Rhea became alarmed that she was about to leave. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. She had never had a real doll. 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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