She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ” “Perhaps not,” she answered. ‘Only perhaps I can more readily do so if you will put down that pistol. 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. Wood, as, having seen the earth thrown over the remains of the unfortunate Mrs. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from.
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