She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. 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. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. ’ ‘Don’t you dare.
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