Explore "Perch of the Devil" by Gertrude Atherton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Gregory and Mark established their wives comfortably in a drawing-room of the limited for Chicago, asked the usual masculine questions about tickets and trunk checks, expressed their masculine surprise that nothing had been forgotten, told them to be careful not to lean over the railing of the observation car, nor to make themselves ill with the numerous boxes of candy sent to the train, admonished them not to spend too much money in New York, to send their trunks to the steamer the day before they sailed, and give themselves at least two hours to get to the docks; above all not to mislay their letters of credit; then kissed them dutifully, and, as the train moved out, stood on the platform with solemn faces and hearts of indescribable buoyancy.
"My Lord! " exclaimed Ida, as she blew her last kiss. "If Greg was going along I'd have to take care of him every step of the way. I wouldn't trust him with the tickets the length of the train. Men do make me tired. They keep up the farce that we're children just to keep up that other grand farce that they run the Universe. Any old plank to cling to."