You Don't Talk Quite Like A Girl

The Perfect Woman, You See [is] A Working-woman; Not An Idler; Not A Fine Lady; But One Who [uses] Her Hands And Her Head And Her Heart For The Good Of Others.

Always Wanting Another Man Than Your Own.

The Social Mould Civilization Fits Us Into Have No More Relation To Our Actual Shapes Than The Conventional Shapes Of The Constellations Have To The Real Star-patterns. I Am Called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, Living A Calm Wedded Life With My Counterpart Of That Name. But I Am Not Really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, But A Woman Tossed About, All Alone, With Aberrant Passions, And Unaccountable Antipathies.

It Was Still Early, And The Sun's Lower Limb Was Just Free Of The Hill, His Rays, Ungenial And Peering, Addressed The Eye Rather Than The Touch As Yet.

Meanwhile, The Trees Were Just As Green As Before; The Birds Sang And The Sun Shone As Clearly Now As Ever. The Familiar Surroundings Had Not Darkened Because Of Her Grief, Nor Sickened Because Of Her Pain. She Might Have Seen That What Had Bowed Her Head So Profoundly -the Thought Of The World's Concern At Her Situation- Was Found On An Illusion. She Was Not An Existence, An Experience, A Passion, A Structure Of Sensations, To Anybody But Herself.