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January 30 - February 9, 2021
pool? That is when he
Even as a little girl, Mary had not cried easily. She had learned long ago that life was difficult. One had to live it with courage and common sense; it did not reward sentimentality.
what had to be done should be done as soon as possible.
He looked at her solemnly, but she thought that behind his professional mask, she could detect a smirk. He was the sort of man who would enjoy the misfortunes of others.
She has always had the remarkable ability to show exactly what she thinks without saying a word. It’s a very annoying trait.
A lady might feel fear, but she must not give in to it, or so her governess had taught her. So she stared into the darkness until she finally fell asleep, and dreamed of a leering Mr. Hyde walking through the lamplit streets of London, brandishing his murderous cane.
MARY: But I might have felt differently. Although I don’t suppose that makes much of a difference. You know, when I was a child, I thought my father was a magician. I thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. JUSTINE: What happened later doesn’t have to destroy that memory of him.
The man in the middle of the room was holding a pistol. He was tall, with a high forehead and the sort of nose they call aquiline. He looked, Mary thought, like an inquisitive eagle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was pointing the pistol at the wall.
“Ha! She’s got you there, Watson!” said the man holding the pistol. “Or perhaps she’s got me. There’s nothing quite like the clear-sighted irony of a modern young lady to make one feel ridiculous. Although I swear this was a practical experiment, however it may appear. Well then, madam, tell me who you are and what sort of assistance you need this morning. Lost a pug or Pomeranian? I seem to be in the business of retrieving missing pets lately. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this, as you have so brilliantly deduced, is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
Holmes walked around and around the body while the rest of them stood and watched. It was almost comical to see him, bent over like a praying mantis,
Kate looked down at her hands on the table, but did not cry. What good would it have done? We often think that class of woman is hard-hearted, because it does not show emotion, but what good would it do for the Kates of the world to cry? They have learned that tears do not bring relief or change of circumstance. There is no one to wipe their tears, no one to assuage their grief.
If only her father hadn’t had such crabbed, eccentric handwriting! It was like trying to decipher the movements of a spider.
DIANA: She told me when she got sick, before they sent her to the hospital. I think she knew she wasn’t coming back. “Sweetheart,” she said, “I ain’t been the best mum to you, but this is a hard world, and I want you to know what people are like—men especially. They will lie to you as easy as blowing dandelion clocks, and that’s the best of them.” She told me so I would know, and she was right.
This affair resembled a jigsaw puzzle. One corner of it was starting to fit together, to show a picture. But there were so many other pieces that had no place as yet: Beatrice Rappaccini, the poor girl this morning with her brain cut out, and S.A., whatever that meant.
It was a strange experience, dressing as a man. Everything felt different, everything buttoned a different way. But when she had put on the shirt and trousers, she realized what freedom they would give her. How easily she could move, without petticoats swishing around her legs! No wonder men did not want women to wear bloomers. What could women accomplish if they did not have to continually mind their skirts, keep them from dragging in the mud or getting trampled on the steps of an omnibus? If they had pockets! With pockets, women could conquer the world!
DIANA: Why do women have to wear such rotten clothes? I mean, you’ve got the chemise, and then the corset, and then the corset cover, and that’s before you’ve even put on the shirtwaist. What’s the point? BEATRICE: Clothing is one means of enforcing
I still don’t know . . . whether he ever loved me. Or whether I was simply convenient.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary. Diana was right, it was better to dress as a man. She had never before found being a woman confining, but then she had never attempted to investigate a series of murders before either. She had never attempted much of anything. And now she was finding that as soon as one began moving around in the world, doing things, one ran up against a regular list of You Shan’ts.
What was the use of propriety when it kept one from getting things done?
“But we can’t do anything about them at the moment, can we? Do what you can, as my mother used to say, and leave the rest to God. Or Mr. Holmes, as the case may be.”
worried about the two girls. Where were they? Would they be all right? She had only known them for a few days, but already they felt like family, as though they belonged together. BEATRICE: As we do. MARY: Despite our differences. BEATRICE: Or because of them.
Oh, spare me! Religion is a tool some men use to control others. I saw that myself on Moreau’s island.
She could see the moon over the housetops, hanging above the chimneys like a shilling, half bright and half tarnished.
I might have been charmed. He was as intelligent as my father, perhaps more so, and I could speak with him on many topics. I learned much, during those conversations. But always, as the fire burned down, he would say, “It is late, Justine. Come to bed.” And I would remember that I was not a free woman.
I said yes, of course I was excited at such a prospect. I agreed with him so he would not get angry, to keep him in good humor. I was cooking potatoes in lard
Beatrice lay down on the sofa and pulled a blanket over herself. She was so tired . . . not from lack of sleep, but from a sense of hopelessness that had been with her since the death of Giovanni. Here, she thought, she might find . . . not happiness, but peace. Beatrice closed her eyes and dreamed whatever flowers dream.
CATHERINE: Oh, for goodness’ sake. Can’t you be the romantic heroine? Mary is too sensible, Diana is too impulsive, and Justine is too tall. BEATRICE: But I’m not a romantic heroine. I’m a scientist.
And she hid that truth. Knowing of Justine, she did the best she could, for another woman. She erased her from the story.
