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. ” She took the blue box from her hoodie and held it towards him. He looked distant, irritated. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. He believed me when I asked him to marry me.
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