To settle things, you know. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. 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. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her.
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