He loved her, he did not love her work.
She read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the things which seemed most to feed and comfort her.

She suffered not only from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his sternly suppressed longing for freedom and the work that belonged to him.
"Why can't he see," she would say to herself, "that if this succeeds, he can do his work; that I can make it possible for him?
And he won't let me.

He won't take it from me.

Why are men so proud?
Is there anything so ignominious about a woman that it is disgraceful to let one help you?
And why can't he think at all about the others?
It's not just us, it's all people.

If this works, men will have easier times, as well as women.
Everybody can do their real work better with this old primitive business once set right." And then it was always time to get up, or time to go to bed, or time to attend to some of the numberless details of her affairs.
She and her mother had an early lunch before the caffeteria opened, and were glad of the afternoon tea, often held in a retired corner of the broad piazza.