“You let him touch you!” John whispered back. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. He had buckled on his hanger, and had two brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters. But as she got out of the train at Morningside Park Station she had a shock. 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. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. .
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