But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. He closed the door. 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. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Too skilled to advertise their presence by a show of arms and men. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant.
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