You have misunderstood. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. 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 had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same.
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