They know us in the same way as the bees know the flowers; by the
various perfumes they impart to the honey. No more.
How could it be otherwise? If a woman took infinite pains to reveal
herself to a husband or a lover just as she really is, he would think
she was suffering from some incurable mental disease.
A few of us indicate our true natures in hysterical outbreaks, fits of
bitterness and suspicion; but this involuntary frankness is generally
discounted by some subtle deceit.
Do men and women ever tell each other the truth? How often does that
happen? More often than not, I think, they deal in half-lies, hiding
this, embroidering that, fact.
Between the sexes reigns an ineradicable hostility. It is concealed
because life has to be lived, because it is easier and more convenient
to keep it in the background; but it is always there, even in those
supreme moments when the sexes fulfil their highest destiny.
A woman who knows other women and understands them, could easily prove
this in so many words; and every woman who heard her--provided they were
alone--would confess she was right.
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