Do you know what a man is in my eye? He's a tomb. He's
a sarcophagus for the interment of Beafsteakporkchopsliver'nbaconham-
andeggs. He's that and nothing more. For two years I've watched men
eat, eat, eat, until they represent nothing on earth to me but
ruminant bipeds. They're absolutely nothing but something that goes in
front of a knife and fork and plate at the table. They're fixed that
way in my mind and memory. I've tried to overcome it, but I can't.
I've heard girls rave about their sweethearts, but I never could
understand it. A man and a sausage grinder and a pantry awake in me
exactly the same sentiments. I went to a matinee once to see an actor
the girls were crazy about. I got interested enough to wonder whether
he liked his steak rare, medium, or well done, and his eggs over or
straight up. That was all. No, Jeff; I'll marry no man and see him sit
at the breakfast table and eat, and come back to dinner and eat, and
happen in again at supper to eat, eat, eat.'
"'But, Mame,' says I, 'it'll wear off.
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