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Brendon was silent. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. "I was about to add," continued Gay, "that my opera shall have no music except the good old ballad tunes. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Her voice was weak and flat. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter.
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