We fit our sphere as a Chinese woman's foot fits her shoe, exactly, as though God had made both--and yet he knows nothing of either.

In some of us the shaping of our end has been quite completed.

The parts we are not to use have been quite atrophied, and have even dropped off; but in others, and we are not less to be pitied, they have been weakened and left.

We wear the bandages, but our limbs have not grown to them; we know that we are compressed, and chafe against them.
"But what does it help?
A little bitterness, a little longing when we are young, a little futile searching for work, a little passionate striving for room for the exercise of our powers,--and then we go with the drove.

A woman must march with her regiment.