He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose. A slow anger burned in the man. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. There was a second co-respondent. “I’m fine,” she said softly. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. 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. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him.
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