It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. 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. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. ” The money would be available in the afternoon, and she would send him four five-pound notes.
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