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. Nobody who cared. “What can you do?” she asked. " "Advanced them rather," replied Gay, in the same tone. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. " "So it seems," observed the woollen-draper, "and for every one else, too. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. Some of your sex, I mean.
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