He had hurt her. 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. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. Taber? There is a possibility. \"Are you aware that every girl in Princeton Hills would kill for a chance at him? I think it's simple.
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