He lost control of the machine. 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. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. She had no idea what she should do. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. “He is a sad blunderer.
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