Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. 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. More than half the city perished. But although startled and clearly afraid, there was no self-consciousness in her gaze and she was standing her ground. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake.
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