“I cannot part with you. 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 cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. It’s kind of the World War II thing. On all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. It is very bad. I mean—I mean to do what I can. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. “No, you didn’t. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you.
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