Prison was beastly. And Pottiswick, of course. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. You've nothing to do but to take possession. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. “She has refused to listen to you?” “She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner,” he answered.
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