Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. “I will be off,” she declared. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. I've got to know why. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. Her back arched slightly in response. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. I will pray for you. 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.
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