And our homes are tumbling about our heads, because there's no one to look after them.

'One man among a thousand have I found, but a woman among all those have I not found.' Back with them to nursery and kitchen, pantry and herb-garden! Back with them, or we perish." Dyce wore a broad smile.

He knew that he himself would have spoken thus had he not been committed to another way of talking.

Breakspeare, too, smiled, but with only half-assent; he reserved his bigamous alternative.

Martin Blaydes took a long draught from his beaker, puffed half-a-dozen rings of smoke, and pursued his diatribe in the same good-natured growl.
"The fury to get rich--who is so responsible for it as the crowd of indolent, luxurious and vain women?
The frenzy to become notorious--almost entirely women's work.