She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. Your aunt and I have discussed all this matter. Manning, all this sort of thing is very well as sentiment, but does it correspond with the realities? Are women truly such angelic things and men so chivalrous? You men have, I know, meant to make us Queens and Goddesses, but in practice—well, look, for example, at the stream of girls one meets going to work of a morning, round-shouldered, cheap, and underfed! They aren’t queens, and no one is treating them as queens. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. She’s taken my sword.
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