“Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. 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. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. And not a worthy tome in sight. "During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want.
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