The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. 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. His literary instincts began to stir. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding.
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