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 grinned. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. Wood, would preclude the possibility of his remaining with his new friends as long as his inclinations prompted. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way.
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