That old long-buried Tory ancestor of hisen
eggin' him on, so I spoze, and Polly's generous sperit rebellin' aginst the
injustice and selfishness, and mebby some warlike ancestor of hern pushin'
her on to say hash things. 'Tennyrate he had grown less attentive to her,
and wuz bestowin' his time and attentions elsewhere.
And when she told him she wuz goin' to ride in the automobile parade of the
suffragists, but really ridin' she felt towards truth and justice to half
the citizens of the U.S., he wuz mad as a wet hen, a male wet hen, and wuz
bound she shouldn't go.
Some men, and mebby it is love that makes 'em feel so (they say it is), and
mebby it is selfishness (though they won't own up to it), but they want
the women they love to belong to them alone, want to rule absolutely over
their hearts, their souls, their bodies, and all their thoughts and aims,
desires, and fancies. They don't really say they want 'em to wear veils,
and be shet in behind lattice-windowed harems, but I believe they would
enjoy it.
They want to be foot loose and heart loose themselves, but always after
Ulysses is tired of world wandering, he wants to come back and open the
barred doors of home with his own private latch-key, and find Penelope
knitting stockings for him with her veil on, waitin' for him.
That sperit is I spoze inherited from the days when our ancestor, the Cave
man, would knock down the woman he fancied, with a club, and carry her off
into his cave and keep her there shet up.
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