He followed. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. 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. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed.
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