All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. “I did not,” Anna answered. But, in the midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. I am with you through thick and thin, Nigel. Even now I do not understand.
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