" Ten minutes later, the doctor, having marshalled all his facts chronologically, began his tale. The Storm VII. 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. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. “Well, you know. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward.
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