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. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. “Very good,” he said.
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