Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. 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. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. Capes, do you think. Somehow logic could not explain her. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. I want to be a human being; I want to learn about things and know about things, and not to be protected as something too precious for life, cooped up in one narrow little corner.
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