“No. 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. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. ’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. Perhaps it was loneliness.
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