"What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. 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. “It will spoil your life. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly.
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