It was the size of my palm. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. The truth was impossible, indecent. Only I do not care to write about anything else. 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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