I cannot turn into a bat. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. She saw his finger pull back on the hammer of the gun and shrieked a warning just as Jack launched himself forward and Gosse turned and fired. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. I don’t care! I’m glad I did. I can’t love you. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I.
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