Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. 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. What a pig she was. You cannot care for her.
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