''
``It began, away back, when I was a girl--this idea
of a career. I envied men and despised women, the
sort of women I knew and met with. I didn't realize
why, then. But it was because a man had a chance to
be somebody in himself and to do something, while a
woman was just a--a more or less ornamental
belonging of some man's--what you want me to become
now.''
``As far as possible from my idea.''
``Don't you want me to belong to you?''
``As I belong to you.''
``That sounds well, but it isn't what could happen.
The fact is, Donald, that I want to belong to you--
want to be owned by you and to lose myself in you.
And it's that I'm fighting.''
She felt the look he was bending upon her, and
glowed and colored under it, but did not dare to turn
her eyes to meet it. Said he: ``Why fight it? Why
not be happy?''
``Ah, but that's just it,'' cried she. ``I shouldn't
be happy. And I should make you miserable. The
idea of a career--the idea that's rooted deep in me
and can't ever be got out, Donald; it would torment
me.
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