Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. "I am. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. . His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. “No one asks you to care for them. 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.
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