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. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. Already Cosette was her chosen friend.
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