‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. He wanted her named Mary. 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. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. A paralyzing horror was upon her.
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