Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. 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 was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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