” He said, running his fingers lightly over one pink nipple. 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. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow. 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. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers.
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