But Sally was not of this blood.

She is the lamb that goes willing to the slaughter, the woman, whom a man like Traill, when once he holds the trembling threads of her affection, can drive to the uttermost.
"Then you give no liberty to a woman ?" she said.
"No--not the liberty she talks about.

Not the idea of liberty that she gets from these suffragist pamphleteers." "I'd like you to meet my friend, Miss Hallard," said Sally.
"Why?
Who's Miss Hallard?
What is she ?" "She's an artist--I share rooms with her." "Why would you like me to meet her ?" "I'd like to hear you two argue.

She thinks just the opposite.

She thinks--" "I never argue with a woman," Traill interrupted.
"You think so poorly of us ?" She tried to say it with spirit--struck the flint in her eyes, contracted her lips to the hard, thin line.
"As women?
No--the very best." Her looks did not worry him.