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. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. Gosse was backing towards the table.
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