He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. 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. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. And rather unscrupulous. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. He did make her perceive something of the acute, tormenting desire for her that had arisen in him and possessed him. Somehow.
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