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She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't. 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 started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. And yet he knew that his skill was equal to that of any fashionable practitioner in Hong-Kong.
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