It wasn’t pretty. The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. 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. “Annabel;” he moaned. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. Ah, no, I have it wrong.
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