What Every Woman Knows
WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS JAMES M. BARRIE ACT I (James Wylie is about to make a move on the dambrod, and in the little Scotch room there is an awful silence befitting the occasion. James with his hand poised--for if he touches a piece he has to play it, Alick will see to that--raises his red head suddenly to read Alick's face. His father, who is Alick, is pretending to be in a panic lest James should make this move. James grins heartlessly, and his fingers are about to close on the 'man' when some instinct of self-preservation makes him peep once more. This time Alick is caught: the unholy ecstasy on his face tells as plain as porridge that he has been luring James to destruction. James glares; and, too late, his opponent is a simple old father again. James mops his head, sprawls in the manner most conducive to thought in the Wylie family, and, protruding his underlip, settles down to a reconsideration of
another word.
MISS ANTHONY--When I was brought before your honor for trial, I hoped
for a broad and liberal interpretation of the Constitution and its
recent amendments, that should declare all United States citizens under
its protecting aegis--that should declare equality of rights the national
guarantee to all persons born or naturalized in the United States. But
failing to get this justice--failing, even, to get a trial by a jury
_not_ of my peers--I ask not leniency at your hands--but rather the full
rigors of the law.
JUDGE HUNT--The Court must insist--
(Here the prisoner sat down.)
JUDGE HUNT--The prisoner will stand up.
(Here Miss Anthony arose again.)
The sentence of the Court is that you pay a fine of one hundred dollars
and the costs of the prosecution.
MISS ANTHONY--May it please your honor, I shall never pay a dollar of
your unjust penalty. All the stock in trade I possess is a $10,000 debt,
incurred by publishing my paper--_The Revolution_--four years ago, the
sole object of which was to educate all women to do precisely as I have
WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS JAMES M. BARRIE ACT I (James Wylie is about to make a move on the dambrod, and in the little Scotch room there is an awful silence befitting the occasion. James with his hand poised--for if he touches a piece he has to play it, Alick will see to that--raises his red head suddenly to read Alick's face. His father, who is Alick, is pretending to be in a panic lest James should make this move. James grins heartlessly, and his fingers are about to close on the 'man' when some instinct of self-preservation makes him peep once more. This time Alick is caught: the unholy ecstasy on his face tells as plain as porridge that he has been luring James to destruction. James glares; and, too late, his opponent is a simple old father again. James mops his head, sprawls in the manner most conducive to thought in the Wylie family, and, protruding his underlip, settles down to a reconsideration of