’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. But I'll call a doctor, since you order it. Courtlaw—Lady Mackinnor. 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. ” “Alive! In London!” Annabel moaned. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. “Rubbish!” he answered.
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