. ’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. 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. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it.
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