" "Take care of yourself," said Mr. " "Oh! let me die," groaned the widow. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. I want my freedom. He did everything. 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. He appeared to thunder dire happenings if she did not obey him without further ado. . . She was given a glimpse of his soul.
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