” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. “A sex of blacklegging clients. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. 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. He just walked in a few minutes ago. It is not the woman who speaks there. She felt herself shaking again. “Listen,” she said. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. You must tell me what it all means. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother.
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