“Thanks, so do you. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. 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. . The two young fools laughed until they cried. ‘Never fear, my love. We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father. It doesn’t seem to matter. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then.
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