How would you explain Mrs. Cassidy's perspective on physical abuse in a relationship to someone who has never encountered such a view, using only the justifications and evidence she provides in the text?

From the book

iration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in the downtown paper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mame and her man. Therefore she could not put on airs with Mame. “Don’t it hurt when he soaks you?” asked Mrs. Fink, curiously. “Hurt!”—Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. “Well, say—did you ever have a brick house fall on you?—well, that’s just the way it feels ​ —just like when they’re digging you out of the ruins. Jack’s got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair of Oxfords—and his right!—well, it takes a…

so glum about it that I never appreciate ’em.” Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. “You poor thing!” she said. “But everybody can’t have a husband like Jack. Marriage wouldn’t be no failure if they was all like him. These discontented wives you hear about—what they need is a man to come home and kick their slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses, and chocolate creams. That’d give ’em some interest in life. What I want is a masterful man that slugs you when he’s jagged and hugs you when he ain’t jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain’t got the sand to do neither!” Mrs.…

ike to catch him once beating anybody else! Sometimes it’s because supper ain’t ready; and sometimes it’s because it is. Jack ain’t particular about causes. He just lushes till he remembers he’s married, and then he makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move the furniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I won’t cut my head when he gets his work in. He’s got a left swing that jars you! Sometimes I take the count in the first round; but when I feel like having a good time during the week or want some new rags I come up again for more punishment. That’s what I done last…

ater tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least.” “I should hope,” said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, “that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.” “Oh, go on, Maggie!” said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing ​ and applying witch hazel, “you’re only jealous. Your old man is too frappéd and slow to ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical culture with a newspaper when he comes home—now ain’t that the truth?” “Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,” acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; “but he certainly don’t…

how that he cared! Mr. Fink sprang to his feet—Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other ​ hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come—she whispered his name to herself—she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it. In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face was powdering Mame’s eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat above came the sound of a woman’s voice, high-raised, a bumping, a stumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned—unmistakable sounds of domestic conflict. “Mart and Mag…