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. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. “I know you very well by sight, Sir John. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp.
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