She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. 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’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. and miscarried.
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