" The Wastrel laughed. “Nor am I now,” he answered. She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. "He's in St. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. 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. “Damn”. “We should get out of here.
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