Italians. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. Even unbelieving biological demonstrators must respect decorum; and besides, you see—you were a student. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. There is no further hope. 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. The door to the library burst open. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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