“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. “In a sense—yes. I do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. 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. But her words were not addressed to Melusine.
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