Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. 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. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. She turned back into the hall. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. Whenever she came upon the obliterated word and paused, her father would say: "Faith.
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