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by
Mackenzi Lee
Read between
November 25 - November 27, 2018
That or just shout something about menstruation and watch the entire dock erupt into chaos—it worked so effectively with the hospital board.
It’s a queer thing, to have a vacant space inside you and not know what it is that carved out the absence.
The ruffles of yet another ridiculous dress whisper against the floor behind her. Not ridiculous, I correct myself. Softness can be an armor, even if it isn’t my armor.
Strong weather can make even the safest place feel haunted.
“Inscrutable?” She lets out a short breath of laughter. “Coming from the prickliest girl I’ve ever known.” “Prickly?” I say. “I’m not prickly.” “Felicity Montague, you are a cactus.”
There are many things that make this book fiction, but the roles women play within it are not. The women of the eighteenth century were met with opposition. They had to fight endlessly. Their work was silenced, their contributions ignored, and many of their stories are forgotten today. Nevertheless, they persisted.