It is just a case of the fruit that is out of
reach being the most desirable. Men don't marry frumpy,
snuffy old things of thirty, or thereabouts. Men aren't
marrying now-a-days, anyway. Certainly not for love.
They marry for position, or power, or money, when they do
marry. Think of all the glorious creatures he meets
every day--women whose hair, and finger-nails and teeth
and skin are a religion; women whose clothes are a fine
art; women who are free to care only for themselves;
to rest, to enjoy, to hear delightful music, and
read charming books, and eat delicious food. He doesn't
really care about you, with your rumpled blouses, and
your shabby gloves and shoes, and your somewhat doubtful
linen collars. The last time you saw him you were just
coming home from the office after a dickens of a day, and
there was a smudge on the end of your nose, and he told
you of it, laughing. But you didn't laugh. You rubbed
it off, furiously, and you wanted to cry. Cry! You,
Dawn O'Hara! Begorra! 'Tis losin' your sense av humor
you're after doin'! Get to work."
After which I would fall upon the book in a furious,
futile fashion, writing many incoherent, irrelevant
paragraphs which I knew would be cast aside as worthless
on the sane and reasoning to-morrow.
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