And they--the majority of them--are, after all, just men, Valerie, just men in a world made for men, a world into which we come like timid intruders; uncertain through generations of uncertainty--innocently stupid through ages of stupid innocence, ready to please though not knowing exactly how; ready to be pleased, God knows, with pleasures as innocent as the simple minds that dream of them.
"Valerie, I do not believe any evil first came into this world of men through any woman." Valerie looked down at her folded hands--small, smooth, white hands, pure of skin and innocent as a child's.
"I don't know," she said, troubled, "how much more unhappiness arises through men than through women, if any more ...

I like men.

Some are unruly--like children; some have the sense and the morals of marauding dogs.
"But, at worst, the unruly and the marauders seem so hopelessly beneath one, intellectually, that a girl's resentment is really more of contempt than of anger--and perhaps more of pity than of either." Rita said: "I cannot feel as charitably....

_You_ still have that right." "Rita! Rita!" she said softly, "we both have loved men, you with the ignorance and courage of a child--I with less ignorance and with my courage as yet untested.

Where is the difference between us--if we love sincerely ?" Rita leaned forward and looked at her searchingly: "Do you mean to do--what you said you would ?" "Yes." "Why ?" "Because he wants me." Rita sprang to her feet and began pacing the floor.
"I will not have it so!" she said excitedly, "I will not have it so! If he is a man--a real man--he will not have it so, either.