"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. They were really very fine and abundant, with a blaze of perennial sunflowers behind them. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. 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. "When you are stronger we'll go up to the cutwater and watch them from there. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey.
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