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 down the street at the factory that recently hung out that sign bright with new paint, "Women Wanted." See them arriving at the entrance gate. Fall in line, Mrs. Lewis, and get measured for your new uniform. Yes, you are to have one. It's some form of the things they call trousers. But I'm sure you won't mind that. Put it on. Put it on quickly. In it you will find yourself the real new woman whose coming has hitherto been only proclaimed or prophesied on the waving banners of suffrage processions you've watched parading on the avenues. You are She for whom the ages have waited. This new garment they are handing you has the pocket in it for a pay envelope. You who have been toiling for your board and the clothes you could get after the rest of the family had theirs, are now a labourer worthy of hire. Economic independence, the political economists call it, as they take their pen in hand to make note of the long lines of you going into industry, later to write their deductions into scientific treatises about you.

Now, it may not particularly interest you that you are like this, a phenomenon of the 20th century, but there are plainer terms that I am sure you will understand. Listen, Mrs. Lewis: Every Saturday night there is going to be money in your own pocket. The convenience of this is that never again will you under any circumstances have to go through any one's else pockets for it. Do you see? Right across those portals there where they want you so much