A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. 4. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. "O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. 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. Probably something he had eaten. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this.
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