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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
152
“Well!”
said
Miss
Pole,
sitting
down
with
the
decision
of
a
person
who
has
made
up
her
mind
as
to
the
nature
of
life
and
the
world
(and
such
people
never
tread
lightly,
or
seat
themselves
without
a
bump),
“well,
Miss
Matty!
men
will
be
men.
Every
mother’s
son
of
them
wishes
to
be
considered
Samson
and
Solomon
rolled
into
one—
too
strong
ever
to
be
beaten
or
discomfited—
too
wise
ever
to
be
outwitted.
If
you
will
notice,
they
have
always
foreseen
events,
though
they
never
tell
one
for
one’s
warning
before
the
events
happen.
My
father
was
a
man,
and
I
know
the
sex
pretty
well.”
She
had
talked
herself
out
of
breath,
and
we
should
have
been
very
glad
to
fill
up
the
necessary
pause
as
chorus,
but
we
did
not
exactly
know
what
to
say,
or
which
man
had
suggested
this
diatribe
against
the
sex;
so
we
only
joined
in
generally,
with
a
grave
shake
of
the
head,
and
a
soft
murmur
of
“They
are
very
incomprehensible,
certainly!”
“Now,
only
think,”
said
she.
“There,
I
have
undergone
the
risk
of
having
one
of
my
remaining
teeth
drawn
(for
one
is
terribly
at
the
mercy
of
any
surgeon-dentist;
and
I,
for
one,
always
speak
them
fair
till
I
have
got
my
mouth
out
of
their
clutches),
and,
after
all,
Mr
Hoggins
is
too
much
of
a
man
to
own
that
he
was
robbed
last
night.”
“Not
robbed!”
exclaimed
the
chorus.
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