” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. “If you were to ask me,” he would say, “I should say Blinders is straight. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. She had found that proof. S.
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