‘You ain’t got nothing on me. I’ve thought that out, and you must make up your mind to it. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. Oui, dans la note. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad.
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