No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. The major’s hand stilled. “We don’t want things to happen!” Never had he shown his daughter so clearly that the womenkind he was persuaded he had to protect and control could please him in one way, and in one way only, and that was by doing nothing except the punctual domestic duties and being nothing except restful appearances. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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