“Lord!” she said. She danced with two others. I have plenty in common with Mike. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. I got a rusty bolt cutter. Her anger died and she eyed him. 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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