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. His literary instincts began to stir. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. Annabel, I was lying.
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