The curse of our modern man of the worldism is that we court the women we disapprove and despise the women we respect: we talk of a good woman lightly, like an old household chattel, and forget that her price is above rubies. We are not lowest on our knees before the pure and tender woman, but before two eyes and half a dozen diamonds. I am sick of all this fin de siecle sniggering over wit and culture and the rest of it. Did wit bring us into the world? Did culture bear pain that we might live? Did they love us in our silly fractious childhood and have no thought on earth but us? Can they comfort us, or kindle or sustain? Do we go to an authoress when we are wretched, or think of a woman of fashion when we are tempted? No, indeed, ... but a woman that feareth the Lord she shall be praised: give her the portion that is due to her, and let her works praise her in the gates!

- Valentin, in Basil Howe by G.K. Chesterton