It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. 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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