‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. . . 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. His sister followed. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible.
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