‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. Ireton, you are in league with him. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. ‘As to Gérard, I do not know why he does this. 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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