“I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. 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. “Always planning for death. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. There is the key. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair.
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