She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. 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.
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