“I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher.
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