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. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. ‘You are not at all stupid.
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