If you announce the results, however, you are liable to go to Hecate. Hecate County, I mean.
Unless you do so, that is, in plain wrapper and with a Ph.D. Cf.:
"The inner natures of all men and women partake of the natures of the opposite sex—a psychological phenomenon in some forms openly expressed by modern society (O moms, O Mummers!), but in other forms suppressed with the full force of public opinion. What public opinion suppresses, the individual endeavors to conceal both from himself and from society. Nevertheless, were the individual not equipped with the psychological elements of the opposite sex, comprehension and sympathy between the two would be impossible. And this 'feminine' quality of a man—for example—may even project on real women, in inverted form, those universal, adolescent feelings toward his own sex which the conscious adult man repudiates. Hence, as Cadwallader, Pratt and Razzle say, in their lucid monograph—"
But if you express the results in terms of palpable feelings and acts—rather than in this lack-life lingo of pedagogy—the very gents and gals who share the same sensations will rise as one (owing to the general habit of suppression) and breathe down your neck with a blowtorch.
When you see them coming you will know what troubles them that they do not know.
It is, always, their responses to your perceptions.
Themselves—not you.
Yvonne, to put it in the terse form, like Gwen,
was also in a sense a shimmering fragment of a dislocated inner me.
If you are distressed by her,