"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. . . ’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. ” “Why not?” “You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing —” “Don’t go home. E. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well.
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