‘Eh bien, pig. Of course. That is what my mother used to call me. 271 His parents suggested that he go into therapy. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. 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. Of you—an angel with one wing.
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