They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. Or perhaps my father once. I have always hated it. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. I want her to get forward, to set her among people who'll understand what to do with her. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject.
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