" "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. “Because I hate you!” She spat. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. “If you say so, my pet. I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. ’ Shock spread across her lovely features. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs.
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