‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. 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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