Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life. 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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