It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. 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. And now, Sir Rowland," he continued, turning to the knight, "to our own concerns. This is your moment. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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