Then the hotel manager struck his palms together sharply, and two Chinese "boys" came pattering in from the dining room. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. Daughters were in the air that day. 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.
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