He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. There was some one there. With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. 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. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.
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