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. 112 Sheila needed an early riser: a girl around the house to help cook and clean and walk the dog. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. There’s stories, too, about his demonstrator, Capes Something or other.
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