A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. They are long gone. That, I think, is manifest. You made that thing?” “From a kit. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. 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. One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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