Sheppard, again arresting his departure. 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. Mr. . “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day.
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