’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. " "I wish I could, Joan," returned the carpenter, sadly. 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. The whole neighbourhood was disturbed.
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