It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. The Idle Apprentice. 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. “What? She replied, still hazy. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold.
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