“Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. 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. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. And that happens through our maternity; it’s our very importance that degrades us.
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