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. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Nothing has been touched since. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. "Yes," replied Jack. She laughed altogether in her old manner.
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