What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ’ A derisive snort greeted this passage. She thrashed and screamed as he wrestled her back towards the bed. There was something holding women down, holding women back, and if it wasn’t exactly man-made law, man-made law was an aspect of it.
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