‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. "So I did," retorted Mrs. “It makes one feel quite awkward to mention such a thing, but after all I think that it is best for both parties. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. 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. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered.
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