McClintock sent his yacht over for us this morning. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Considering how little he lets her have. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Threw it out.
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