And name the sort of world it is, dear friends, for which we are to sacrifice our one hope of freedom, that we may preserve our fair fame in it! Diana cried aloud, 'My freedom!' feeling as a butterfly flown out of a box to stretches of sunny earth beneath spacious heavens.

Her bitter marriage, joyless in all its chapters, indefensible where the man was right as well as where insensately wrong, had been imprisonment.

She excused him down to his last madness, if only the bonds were broken.
Here, too, in this very house of her happiness with her father, she had bound herself to the man voluntarily, quite inexplicably.

Voluntarily, as we say.

But there must be a spell upon us at times.