"Let me go!" I said. "My tongue burns to tell your uncle that he
and Sir Percival are not to have it all their own way."
She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.
"No!" she said faintly. "Too late, Marian, too late!"
"Not a minute too late," I retorted. "The question of time is OUR
question--and trust me, Laura, to take a woman's full advantage of
it."
I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but she slipped
both her arms round my waist at the same moment, and held me more
effectually than ever.
"It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion," she
said. "It will set you and my uncle at variance, and bring Sir
Percival here again with fresh causes of complaint--"
"So much the better!" I cried out passionately. "Who cares for
his causes of complaint? Are you to break your heart to set his
mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from
us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our
peace--they drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters'
friendship--they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten
our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel.
And what does the best of them give us in return? Let me go,
Laura--I'm mad when I think of it!"
The tears--miserable, weak, women's tears of vexation and rage--
started to my eyes.
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