“Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. In a sense I don’t care.
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