Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 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. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. “I didn’t know you were so keen on this suffrage business.
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