“If financial independence for women means breaking up the home, then let it be broken. Poverty and the economic dependence of woman on man is the curse of the whole sex relation. It extends from the society matron who caresses and fawns upon a husband whom she loathes in order to wheedle him into the gift of a diamond necklace, a new mansion or other extravagance, through all the middle class women who lie and cheat and steal the household goods to get spending money, on down to the daughters of the poor who are forced to sell their bodies in order to exist. We frown upon European marriages, but expect our own girls to make good matches, marry for a home, do anything to catch a man. Faugh, the thought makes me ill. If we support the American idea of matrimony, then we must admit that the only proper basis for marriage is love. If we are to have free men, we must have free women who refuse to sell themselves for a home, social position, or material gain in any form whatsoever. We must adopt a single standard of morals, and abolish prostitution, both within and without the marriage relation.” “Why—why, you—I’m surprised at you,” stuttered my companion. “I never heard a woman speak such words before. Such talk is indecent, that’s what it is, indecent.” “The truth is often considered indecent, I believe, especially the naked truth. Like the human body, it needs to be concealed by a peek-a-boo waist of prudery and licentiousness.” “Stop, stop, not another word.... Such language is positively shocking ... not fit for a decent woman to listen to.” At this point in this most shocking conversation, the mules headed for a wretched two-room shack that stood a little away from the road. To me the place appeared too poverty-stricken for hope of business, but our driver let the mules have their way. A frowsy woman was carrying two heavy pails of water from a well near which stood a cesspool, a ramshackle shed for stock and a great heap of refuse. The dooryard swarmed with dogs, hogs and children. A sallow girl, gathering corncobs for the fire, loosed her loaded petticoat and dashed forward to greet us. Mrs. Adams seized her sample case and leaving the mules to their own devices, scrambled from the wagon. I followed meekly. The farmer’s wife set down her dripping burden, wiped her hands on her tattered apron and proffered us a brimming dipper. Thirsty as I was, I felt impelled to decline—the well’s environment did not appeal to my taste. No sooner were we within the house, than Mrs. Adams opened negotiations for a side of bacon. “We’ve got some extry bacon, but I dunno about sparin’ none. My old man’s aiming to take some into town to trade in a day or two and I dunno what he’d say if I let go of a side.” “Oh, Maw,” broke in the oldest girl, who had been examining our display with longing eyes, “never mind what Paw says. If he trades the side meat, he’ll just get drunk on the money. He always does.”