” “It would be different all the same. He went to the door. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. 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. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
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