"Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. And now her mind was so full of the thought that she was in love—in love!—that marvellous state! that I really believe she had some dim idea of talking to him about it. 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. There you are! Girl spoilt for life.
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