The aunt laughed. . “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. It was not your fault you failed.
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