The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. 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. Everything. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other.
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