All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me. 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. "Don't fire," cried the latter. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way.
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