She must weigh her situation. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. "Leave him to me," he said. " "You delight me with the intelligence," said the stranger, entirely recovering his cheerfulness of look. Fas du tout. 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. He yielded his place and struck instead with his tongue.
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