A Clean Heart. John Rosengren
red letters across her chest. Carter had asked, jokingly, why it was that they had named the all-women school after a man. “The women didn’t name the school,” she said. “The church fathers did. They were too threatened—as men still are today—of women with their own wills.” Oops. Carter noted. Sore spot.
That may have been the reason she had taken to Carter. Not for his humor, but as a project. She corrected him whenever he used exclusive male pronouns and went out of her way to point out examples of significant achievement by women. She could rattle off names of women neglected by history the way a baseball trivia buff could recite batting averages.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said in the tone of a chairperson addressing her board, completely unaware of her outfit’s impact or the fact that she was late. “Ooh, Nathalie, would you please pass me that coffee pot?”
“Darling,” Dana said. “That outfit is…stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.”
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