She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. She wants to be free—she wants to be legally and economically free, so as not to be subject to the wrong man; but only God, who made the world, can alter things to prevent her being slave to the right one. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. The fair boy in the audience who had waved was yet another suitor.
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