I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. ” He sidled toward her, but she recoiled from him, leaving him in possession of the hearth-rug. In mailing the tales he had not enclosed return postage or the equivalent in money. And then they disgorged. 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 think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said.
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