By the way, I had a luncheon the other day with Mrs. Pankhurst of suffragette fame—the redoubtable Emmeline in the flesh. As I looked at her I could not see the smasher of London windows and the hunger striker forcibly fed in Holloway jail. She had a sweet tired gentle face—looked like some Presbyterian elder’s wife in a country village who had had nothing more strenuous in her life than running the local Ladies Aid and putting up with the elder.
From Francis W. P. Bolger & Elizabeth Epperly, eds., My Dear Mr. M: Letters to G. B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (1992).