For a woman's sin, men have no mercy; and the heart of other women is
more cruel than death.
For her, in the dark hour of her calamity, the women who, with the
same temptation, might have fallen into deeper damnation, have no
commiseration and no prayer.
The heaviest stroke that comes down upon a fallen woman's soul is the
merciless indignation of her sisters.
If the multitudes of the fallen could be placed in a straight line, it
would reach from here to the gates of the lost, and back again.
But what of the destroyer?
We take his arm. We flatter his appearance. We take off our hats.
He is admitted to our parlors. For him we cast our votes. For him
we speak our eulogies. And when he has gone we read over the heap of
compost: "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. They rest from
their labors and their works do follow them."
In the fashionable city to-day there walk a thousand libertines. They
are a moving pest. Their breath is the sirocco of the desert. Their
bones have in them the decay of the pit.
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