But none of your men treat a woman as a woman.

We are either angels, or good fellows, or heaven knows what that is bad.

No exquisite delicacy, no insinuating softness, mixed with respect, none of that hovering over the border, as Papa used to say, none of that happy indefiniteness of manner which seems to declare "I would love you if I might," or "I do, but I dare not tell," even when engaged in the most trivial attentions--handing a footstool, remarking on the soup, etc.

You none of you know how to meet a woman's smile, or to engage her eyes without boldness--to slide off them, as it were, gracefully.

Evan alone can look between the eyelids of a woman.