‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. 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 squinted and a disgusted look came over him. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely.
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