She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. 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 addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. "There's no outlet that way.
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