We do not remember to have met with a single individual, reported to be under petticoat government, who was not content with his lot,—nay, who so far from repining, did not exult in his servitude; and we see no way of accounting for this apparently inexplicable conduct—for which, among other phenomena of married life, various reasons have been assigned, though none entirely satisfactory to us—except upon the ground that these domineering dames possess some charm sufficiently strong to counteract the irritating effect of their tempers; some secret and attractive quality of which the world at large is in ignorance, and with which their husbands alone can be supposed to be acquainted. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. No; she'd never go back.
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