Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. They stopped talking, except to each other. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. I'm hungry. Do anything to please you, Vee.
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