Firstly, you are perfect idiots to go on in this way. Your bodies
are the most beautiful of God's creation. In the continental
galleries I constantly saw groups of people, gathered about the
pictures of women. It was not passion; the gazers were quite as
likely to be women, as men. It was the wondrous beauty of woman's
body.
Now stand with me at my office window, and see a lady pass. There
goes one! Now isn't that a pretty looking object? A big hump, three
big humps, a wilderness of crimps and frills, a hauling up of the
dress here and there, an enormous hideous mass of false hair or bark
piled on the top of her head, and on the very top of that, a little
nondescript thing, ornamented with bits of lace, birds' tails, etc.;
while the shop windows tell us all day long, of the paddings,
whalebones, and springs, which occupy most of the space within that
outside rig.
In the name of all the simple, sweet sentiments which cluster about
a home, I would ask, how is a man to fall in love with such a
compound, doubled and twisted, starched, comical, artificial, touch-
me-not, wiggling curiosity?