Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. Her English was halting. . " Mrs. 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. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. Don't unman him. It could not go on much longer, her luck. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. It filled her with indefinable fear.
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