She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. . But before the child could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. Her unnatural calm was giving way. . 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. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell.
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