It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. 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. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly.
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