‘Exactement. . His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. ‘Come,’ she called. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. But she was not there. You’re of age— you’re of age. 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. His smile faded.
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