'_Sex is a morbid instinct. Out here, in the calmness of the canal
and the broad meadows, it never enters one's head. I do not think
of Ferdinand as a man--_'
She looked up at him as she wrote the words. He was reading a book and
she saw him in profile, with the head bent down. Through the leaves the
sun lit up his face with a soft light that was almost green, and it
occurred to her that it would be interesting to paint him.
'_I do not think of Ferdinand as a man; to me he is a companion. He
has a wider experience than a woman, and he talks of different
things. Otherwise I see no difference. On his part, the idea of my
sex never occurs to him, and far from being annoyed as an ordinary
woman might be, I am proud of it. It shows me that, when I chose a
companion, I chose well. To him I am not a woman; I am a man._'