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Updated: May 12, 2025
But his wife laughed at Mary, or at that development of the feminist movement which had produced her and so many other more startling phenomena. The Doctor was fond of his wife, a sprightly, would-be fashionable, still very pretty woman. But her laughter, and the opinion it represented, were to him the merest crackling of thorns under a pot.
You see, he was not a socialist: only a feminist. Havelock the Dane, on the other hand, was by no means a feminist, but was a socialist. What probably brought the two men together apart from their common likableness was that each, in his way, refused to "go the whole hog."
"No Compromise" was Susan's watchword these days, as a feminist as well as an abolitionist, even though this again set her at odds with Garrison and Phillips, the two men she respected above all others. They were now writing her stern letters urging her to reveal the hiding place of a fugitive wife and her daughter.
"No woman is good enough for you," returned Jeanne loyally. "And your brains are just as good as mine, only you haven't used them. I have questioned and reached out and gained knowledge of all kinds. I am a Feminist and you are not. If you were you would understand." "I don't know even what a Feminist is," said Jimmie, "but I'm glad I'm not one."
"Justice be hanged!" replied Chantry. "Quite so: the feminist slogan." "A socialist can't afford to throw stones." The retorts were spoken sharply, on both sides. Then both men laughed. They had too often had it out seriously to mind; these little insults were mere convention. "Get at your story," resumed Chantry. "I suppose there's a woman in it: a nasty cat invented by your own prejudices.
Winters feels it to be one's duty to oneself to dress for dinner always, no matter how much one's guests may wish to relax Nancy as much out of place in the apartment whose very cushions seem to smell of that modern old-maidishness that takes itself for superior feminist virtue as a crocus would be in an exhibition of wool flowers a Nancy who doesn't talk much and has faint blue stains under her eyes.
She did not permit herself irrational emotions, so she pretended that what she was feeling was not terror of this man, but the anger of a feminist against all men, and stared fiercely at the platform, crying out silently: "What have I to do with this man? I will have nothing to do with any man until I am great.
Too few of them have the intelligence or gumption to have the least idea how to go about it, did it ever occur to them that things might be radically improved. Nor is it anything but feminist sentimentality, as far as I can see, to argue against special legislation for women. What women can do intellectually as compared with men I am in no position to state.
"And the man stands as the master at the mouth of the den." "As sentinel. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman." "I wish," said Ann Veronica, with sudden anger, "that you could know what it is to live in a pit!"
If I had a daughter who was as wonderful as Richard I would let my life revolve round her. But I don't know. Perhaps I'm reactionary. Because I don't really believe that any woman could be as wonderful as Richard; do you?" Ellen had always suspected that this woman was not quite sound on the Feminist question.
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