You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. 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. D'ye hear. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death.
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