Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. You are more in my power than I am in yours. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. I want you to be my lover. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night.
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