John eased off. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. 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. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. He made this simple classification of a large and various sex to the exclusion of all intermediate kinds; he held that the two classes had to be kept apart even in thought and remote from one another. “Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. "You begin to have doubts, eh? A handful of money between you, and nothing else.
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