His hot juices coursed into her in quick bursts. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. "You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. 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. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love.
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