Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. She was curious, and at the same time clearly resolved she must not hear it. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the 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. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. " "Pshaw! you'd do as much for me any day, and think no more about it. "Where are you?" "Here," replied Mrs.
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