difference anyway. But Nora is always on the defensive and fabricates
when it is necessary, and when it isn't, just through habit. She will
hide a letter written by her grandmother as quickly and deftly as if it
were a missive from a guilty lover. The habit of her life is one of
suspicion, for being inwardly guilty herself, she suspects everybody
although it is quite likely that crime with her has never broken through
thought into deed. Nora will rifle her husband's pockets, read his
note-book, examine his letters, and when he goes on a trip she spends
the day checking up his desk, for her soul delights in duplicate keys.

At times she lets drop hints of knowledge concerning little nothings
that are none of hers, just to mystify folks.

She does strange, annoying things simply to see what others will do.

In degree, Nora's husband fixed the vice of finesse in her nature, for
when even a "good" woman is accused she parries by the use of trickery
and wins her point by the artistry of the bagnio. Women and men are
never really far apart anyway, and women are largely what men have
made them.

We are all just getting rid of our shackles; listen closely, anywhere,
even among honest and intellectual people, if such there be, and you can
detect the rattle of chains.

The Disagreeable Girl's mind and soul have not kept pace with her body.
Yesterday she was a slave, sold in a Circassian mart, and freedom to her
is so new and strange that she is unfamiliar with her environment, and
she does not know what to do with it.

The tragedy she works, according to George Bernard Shaw, is through the
fact that very often good men, blinded by the glamour of sex, imagine
they love the Disagreeable Girl, when what they love is their own
ideal--an image born in their own minds.

Nature is both a trickster and a humorist, and ever sets the will of the
species beyond the discernment of the individual. The picador has to
blindfold his horse in order to get him into the bull-ring, and
likewise, Dan Cupid does the myopic to a purpose.

For aught we know, the lovely Beatrice of Dante was only a Disagreeable
Girl, clothed in a poet's fancy, and idealized by a dreamer. Fortunate
was Dante that he worshipped her afar, that he never knew her well
enough to be undeceived, and so walked through life in love with love,
sensitive, saintly, sweetly sad and most divinely happy in his
melancholy.

The Neutral

There is known to me a prominent