She looked at him keenly. "Are those still your conditions?"
He hesitated one second before he answered firmly. "Yes, those are still my conditions. You still won't agree to them?"
"I still won't agree. It's no use talking about it. You don't believe in freedom. We're incompatible. We don't stand for the same ideals."
"Oh, Lord, what does that matter?"
"It matters most awfully."
"I should have thought," said Drayton, "it would have mattered more if I'd had revolting manners or an impediment in my speech or something."
"It wouldn't, really."
"Well, you seem to have thought about a lot of things. Did you ever once think about me, Dorothy?"
"Yes, I did. Have you ever read the Psalms? There's a jolly one that begins: 'Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight.' I used to think of you when I read that. I thought of you a lot.
"That's what I was coming to. It was the queerest thing of all. Everything seemed ended when I went to prison. I knew you wouldn't care for me after what I'd done--you must really listen to this, Frank--I knew you couldn't and wouldn't marry me; and it somehow didn't matter. What I'd got hold of was bigger than that. I knew that all this Women's Suffrage business was only a part of it, a small, ridiculous part.