’ ‘You can arrest me,’ answered Kimble belligerently, ‘but you can’t make me say nothing about her. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. 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. He remembered that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between these two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, whilst the other had attached herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterie of pleasure-seekers. ” He stalked around the room.
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