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. But since you assure me you didn't write the letters, and Mr. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. "It is too late.
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