She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. 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. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. 1. Gwen made an inquiry, and, directed by Mrs. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success.
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