She held out the foil. When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. 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. I won't have a beachcomber on the island. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. ’ ‘What are you about now, child?’ demanded Martha apprehensively.
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