“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. He sees men all defiled by coarse thoughts, coarse ways of living cruelties. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. linked image back linked image back MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS Elizabeth Bailey © 2011 by Elizabeth Bailey All rights reserved. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied.
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