And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. If any of you—or all of you feel the same in six months’ time from to-day, will you come, if you care to, and see me then?” There was a brief silence. Though it’s very kind of you. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. On the way he confessed. But this is all different. 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. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. I am almost old enough to be your father. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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