82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. 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. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. He had let go his name so easily as that! What was the name she had given? Ruth something; he could not remember. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. “Lighten up.
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