A Jury Of Her Peers Quotes

Well, women are used to worrying over trifles.

We all go through the same things - it's just a different kind of the same thing

She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun—and not finished.

We all go through the same things—it's all just a different kind of the same thing!

As I was saying,” Bryce drawled, “for the moment, I’m queen. I’m judge, jury …” Bryce looked to Sathia, still shaken and wide-eyed from the twins’ attack—yet unafraid. Unbroken, despite what the males in her life, what this male, had tried to do to her. So Bryce peered down at Morven and finished sweetly, “And I’m your motherfucking executioner.

As I was saying,” Bryce drawled, “for the moment, I’m queen. I’m judge, jury …” Bryce looked to Sathia, still shaken and wide-eyed from the twins’ attack—yet unafraid. Unbroken, despite what the males in her life, what this male, had tried to do to her. So Bryce peered down at Morven and finished sweetly, “And I’m your motherfucking executioner.” The King of Avallen was still blazing with hate when Bryce slid Truth-Teller into his heart.

Morven hissed, “You’ll be Queen of Avallen over my dead …” He trailed off at the smile on her face. And paled. “As I was saying,” Bryce drawled, “for the moment, I’m queen. I’m judge, jury …” Bryce looked to Sathia, still shaken and wide-eyed from the twins’ attack—yet unafraid. Unbroken, despite what the males in her life, what this male, had tried to do to her. So Bryce peered down at Morven and finished sweetly, “And I’m your motherfucking executioner.” The King of Avallen was still blazing with hate when Bryce slid Truth-Teller into his heart.

A Jury of Her Peers By Susan Glaspell (1876–1948)

Can you forgive me? Men are complete idiots when a woman cries.” He gave her the smile he’d reserved for old ladies in the jury box. She nibbled on her lower lip, looking pensive and wary. The bluebird in his grandma’s cuckoo clock sprang from its door and chirped, breaking the silence. Maddie jumped, pressing her hand to her chest as though trying to keep her heart from jumping out. As the clock struck, he cursed himself for making her uncomfortable. How could he have made such a tactical error? From what he’d discerned, she might as well be a virgin. He’d simply forgotten himself. Lost in her charm and good-girl complex, he’d said the first teasing thing that sprang to mind. And since he was a guy, it had been sexual. He took two cautious steps toward her, hoping she wouldn’t bolt upstairs. “That wasn’t the best thing to say when I’m trying to get you out of your clothes.” Auburn brows drew together in what he could only suspect was disapproval. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? This wasn’t the time to mention seeing her naked. Shit, it was like he had no experience with women. She still said nothing, just stared at him with those uncanny green eyes. And damn if it wasn’t making him a bit unsettled. It had been so long since he’d been anything but cool and detached, even before his troubles in Chicago. The knowledge caused a stirring of unease. “I swear, I didn’t mean it.” He was starting to sound like a sixteen-year-old apologizing for trying to get to second base. Quietly, she toyed with the fabric of her dress, picking at one of the sparkly beads. At a loss for how to make the situation right, he offered the one thing he wanted to avoid, but was guaranteed to put her at ease. “Do you want me to call my neighbor, Gracie, to come help you out of your dress? She eats shit like this up, so you’ll make her day.” Maddie shifted on the balls of her feet. He narrowed his eyes. No matter how hard he peered at her, she remained a mystery. He sweetened the offer. “She’s a baker, so I bet she even has some cupcakes or cookies lying around.” Maddie placed her hand on her stomach. Why wouldn’t she speak? He raked a hand through his hair. “Princess, take pity on me here. I can’t begin to guess what you’re thinking. Did I scare you away forever?” She blinked, her face clearing as though she’d suddenly come out of a trance. “I’m sorry. Other than being an emotional basket case, I’m fine.” This

I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticising.

No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except a reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women.

No, Mrs. Peters doesn’t need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the law.

Oh, I wish I’d come over here once in a while! That was a crime! That was a crime! Who’s going to punish that?

So tell me now. Please. Is there anything you’ve heard today, or anything in your life, your character, that would prevent you from being the open-minded jurors we need you to be?

You know,” Sybylla said warmly, “it isn’t such a terrible thing to be incapable of open-mindedness. All of us are swayed by our experiences, and by prejudices. If the school bully who beat you up had red hair, then maybe there’s a tiny part of you that resents people with red hair, even though you may know this to be irrational.

This is my client Trent. I’m going to defend him vigorously, because that’s my job. When he looks at you today, he has to see a group of people who are willing to be fair and impartial. Please think about those words—fair and impartial. Because, believe me, if it were you in this chair, or your mother, or your child, you’d be as desperate to have fair and impartial jurors as he is right now.

Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles." The two women moved a little closer together.

Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into things.

Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster.

And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the motive—and that's the thing we need." Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a show man getting ready for a pleasantry. "But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair door.

Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of—nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still—after the bird was still.

I might 'a' known she needed help! I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things—it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren't—why do you and I understand? Why do we know—what we know this minute?

Who am I kidding? It’s a wonderful feeling to walk into a shop and see your life story on display, even when customers are striding past it in search of the latest Grisham. My mood lightened further when, just about this time, I was summoned to jury duty. Walking into the cavernous room at the DC courthouse where prospective jurors are made to cool their heels, I sat down next to a young woman. After a moment, she gave me a sidelong glance, as strangers in such a situation will do. I peered at the volume she was holding in her lap—Madam Secretary. The young woman did a double take, our eyes met, we bumped fists, and I yearned on the spot to adopt her.

Warren published several plays—The Adulateur (1772), The Defeat (1773), and The Group (1775)—in the Boston newspapers under the signature “A Lady from Massachusetts.” The Group, published in book form as well, satirized the Tory governing council that represented the British government in Boston. In her list of dramatis personae, Warren caricatured council members, citizens, and writers under such names as Hum Humbug, Sir Sparrow Spendall, Brigadier Hateall, and Scriblerius Fribble, and noted that they were attended by “a swarm of court sycophants, hungry harpies, and unprincipled danglers, collected from the neighboring villages, hovering over the stage in the form of locusts … the whole supported by a mighty army and navy from Blunderland, for the laudable purpose of enslaving its best friends.” This blunt comic invective shows how forcefully Warren could express her political views in prose.

Anne Bradstreet happened to be one of the first American women inhabiting a time and place in which heroism was a necessity of life, and men and women were fighting for survival both as individuals and as a community. To find room in that life for any mental activity … was an act of great self-assertion and vitality. To have written poems … while rearing eight children, lying frequently sick, keeping house at the edge of the wilderness, was to have managed a poet's range and extension within confines as severe as any American poet has confronted.

Uncle Tom's Cabin inspired outrage in the proslavery South, and its political message far dominated its literary merits. Some parents forbade their children to read it; “it was not allowed to be even spoken of in our house!” Grace King of New Orleans remembered. Uncle Tom's Cabin was a monster to scare children with, a “hideous, black, dragon-like book that hovered on the horizon of every Southern child.”13 Southern women writers responded with pious self-justification and angry self-defense. Between 1852 and i860, they published nine “anti-Tom” novels, which feature loyal and contented slaves, benevolent plantation owners, pious death scenes of devoted and beloved mammies, dire warnings of the pitfalls of freedom, and an emphasis on the rewards to be found in heavenly mansions where master and slave shall be equal.14 Their emphatic Christianity is actually indoctrination in white supremacy, and behind their glorification of the saintly and powerful planter's wife is a recurring fear of slave insurrections.

Frances Watkins Harper (1825-1911) wrote to Brown in prison, stayed with his wife for two weeks before his execution, and made him the subject of her early forays into fiction. Harper was a free black woman raised in Baltimore by an aunt and an evangelistic Methodist uncle who directed a well-known school, the William Wat-kins Academy for Negro Youth. She had studied there until the age of thirteen, and began early to write poems and essays. After 1850, however, her life in Baltimore was threatened by the hostile environment of the Fugitive Slave Act, and she left to become a teacher, first in Ohio and then in Philadelphia, where she began to publish in the abolitionist press. Three of her poems were written in response to Uncle Tom's Cabin, and “To Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe” thanked the author herself: For the sisters of our race Thou'st nobly done thy part Thou hast won thyself a place In every human heart.27