“Do you call it nothing to stay all day twisting a miserable thread like this?” Theria spun with her fingers. “When there is so much, oh, so much in the world.”
“But do women feel that way?” he asked. “They always seem contented in the house.”
“Would you be content?”
“By the gods, no.”
“But are we not like you, we girls? We are strong—we like to run and breathe the air. Look at my arm, how ugly white. It has never seen the sun.” She flashed out her fair arm—free of its drapery.
“That is not ugly,” said the boy gently.
“It is! It is! White as a Persian’s!”
“No, it is Greek,” maintained the boy. “By the gods, I’d like to see you running brown and free like Artemis in the wood.”
“You don’t think I am foolish to want to run and leap.”
“No—no—no!”