” He stroked her hand gently. 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. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table.
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