“Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline. The door closed softly upon her. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. —I'll soon find you out. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. If I had been your companion only, and not your master, I might very well have been content to accept you for what you seem. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men.
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