I spent this afternoon in detention. “How well and jolly you must be feeling. 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. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. Michelle would arrive daily with a two to ten minute brief on her own dating status, her nightly dreams, grades, new family developments. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. "Mother, I come to you.
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