The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. 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. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. You got to take the world as it is, and the only possible trade for a girl that isn’t sweated is to get hold of a man and make him do it for her. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. ‘It is imbecile that you are.
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