Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It isn’t the same thing. 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. But she was relentless.
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