It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. 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. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love.
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