Let the awnings of mine house be burned and my lace curtains consumed with fire. I shall not murmur.
For I am my Beloved’s and there is naught else like unto him.
CHAPTER TWO
The Song of Songs, which is the widow’s.
When I was a rib, I spoke as a rib, and all my ways were the ways of a rib.
Lo, I took man seriously, even as he took himself. For him did I rush the breakfast—and keep it waiting.
Unto him did I offer up the palm—and the morning paper. All his opinions were right in mine eyes; and because he said a thing, it was so.
He was the Lord of my Heart, and the Source of mine Income. And in him I saw nothing funny; for my sense of humor had not yet been awakened.
He looked at my hats and mocked them. Yet that inverted salad bowl which he called a “derby” did not arouse my mirth. He waxed satirical at the number of my puffs, and my coiffure was a daily target for his wit. Yet, though he cut all the hair from off his head, and left it to grow upon his face, I felt no merriment.