‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. 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. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. “But it still misses the nucleolus. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite.
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