Sublime

He had such rose-colored halos on his womenfolks. I held a middle ground, highly scientific, of course, and used to argue learnedly about the physiological limitations of the sex.

No mates exist for countless miles around, and a chestnut, though both male and female, will not serve itself.

High spurts the fountain; fierce and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. No wonder those poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miserable.

They had no enemies;

"and you must be desperately homesick."

He couldn’t seem to stop the flow of his thoughts to his mouth.

"Woman" in the abstract is young, and, we assume, charming. As they get older they pass off the stage, somehow, into private ownership mostly, or out of it altogether. But these good ladies were very much on the stage, and yet any one of them might have been a grandmother.

piquant: