The Wastrel did not relish this. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. ’ He took a pace forward, seizing the gun with one hand, while the other locked her arm so that he could forcibly wrest the weapon from her.
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