“You’re very nice, both of you,” she said gently. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. 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.
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