A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. His face turned a dark crimson. 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.
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