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Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. 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. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. Earles with composure into the inner room. YOU did.
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