March 8.
THERE are several things in the world for which I, of womankind and nineteen years, have conceived a forcible repugnance—or rather, the feeling was born in me; I did not have to conceive it.
Often my mind chants a fervent litany of its own that runs somewhat like this:
From women and men who dispense odors of musk; from little boys with long curls; from the kind of people who call a woman's figure her "shape": Kind Devil, deliver me.
From all sweet girls; from "gentlemen"; from feminine men: Kind Devil, deliver me.
From black under-clothing—and any color but white; from hips that wobble as one walks; from persons with fishy
