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. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. I shall charge you five per cent. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. “I hope you’re satisfied. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame.
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