‘But how did she meet such a person in a convent?’ ‘He was wounded and came there for sanctuary,’ Gerald explained, adding almost through his teeth. 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. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. She held out both her hands. ‘As to that, I am a devil, say the nuns. Fire; she was full of it. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. G. Even though I knew you’d no one else to care.
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