Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. . "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. 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. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe.
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