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. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time.
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