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. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. She felt she must suffocate if these men did not put her down, and for a time they would not put her down. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood.
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