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 soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember.
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