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. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. “You would have been treated differently in the Old World, the one where I came from. Voilà tout. But, it can't be helped.
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