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. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. "Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. She laughed a little contemptuously. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. ‘I know that, miss. ” Lights went on inside the house on the upper level. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts.
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