You cannot care for her. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Sheila plucked it out of Lucy’s hamper with some of Lucy’s panties and brassieres, figuring that she’d help out because she was doing a load of whites anyway. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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