“Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. “I have made no arrangements as yet— none at all. Something drew you. He's got the gift of the gab. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. I'll think no more about her. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. My Great Grandma 39 LeFevre had fourteen children, and my Papa said that she started at the age of thirteen. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch.
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