Your aunt liked the pheasant. Lucy entered the room. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. 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. Slowly and ruefully she realized why marriage was so idealized among her generations of those before her.
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