To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. And she—’ ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. Every moment. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. You know what's what. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. Lives by his wits and gambling. Quick, now. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid.
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