“You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. Stanley?” “I’ve fallen out with my father. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. You are very lovely, Ruth. 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.
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