Then she reverted to the trousers. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. Then we find out. 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. White. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers.
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