In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. 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. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. ‘You have not the right. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk.
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