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. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. She was to be a Corsair’s Bride. “And besides,” said Ann Veronica, sweeping that aspect aside, “what could I do? A boy sails out into a trade or profession. You see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life.
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