The year is 1870, the heyday of Victorian England.
Funny, thought Chloe, how a woman's life could be effectively over when a man's was just beginning. A man at thirty was young, a woman old. If a woman turned thirty without marrying as Chloe had, it was universally conceded that nothing but old maidhood awaited, particularly if--like Chloe--she was a younger daughter and if--like Chloe--she wasn't pretty. Nothing but decades of needlework and living in the households of richer relations--people with lives and families, unlike her--awaited her until she died and half a dozen people bothered to show up for her funeral.
Well, that wasn't going to be Chloe's life, she thought as she entered with some trepidation the Temple of Divine Manhood. She was somewhat intimidated at the thought of sacrificing to a pagan god, but the Hindus did it and they were a civilized people. She took out her most prized piece of crochet and laid it in front of the god. Chloe felt her body instantly transformed, her gawkiness transfigured into masculine power.
The young man leaving the Temple was laughing. He had his whole life in front of him!