Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. 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. I suppose if one were to love some one, one would feel doubtful. She has married some one he could not approve of, and gone right away. “Heaven knows!” said Mr. Why, is the question I would like answered. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table.
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