“Come here!" She sped to him, lightly, swiftly, in her tiny tunic. Cabot was pleased with her. Over the past few days she had progressed irrecoverably in her bondage. Her carriage, her kneeling, her subtlest movement, was now that of a slave. In Cabot's hands she had been spoiled for freedom. Cabot had no doubt that she would now go for at least two tarsks. Freedom was now well behind her. She had learned bondage. Even if she were to be freed now she could never be more than an unhappy slave, a miserable slave pretending to be a free woman. She might attempt to imitate a free woman, true, but the farce would be hypocritical and hollow, for she had once worn a collar, a slave collar. The role of the free woman to her would now be shallow, empty, and meaningless. She had learned herself slave. If Cabot freed her, and cast her aside, she would doubtless have no hope of happiness other than to find a new master, a new man from whom to beg a collar, a new man to kneel before, and serve.
