I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. . She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. 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. ‘General, we do not know. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that.
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