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. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. "I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. " "Add that to what she is now suffering? It's too late. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. I will teach you how to make that little sufficient.
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