. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Of course there are, millions of them. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. “Well?” he asked her tersely. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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