"What has happened?" Ruth asked. We men are like children. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. "There won't be much left for you," he said. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. The noose was at its throat when I called for help.
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