"At length, I have my wish," continued Mrs. “Your sex is a terrible fraud. Loving was better than that. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help. ” He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light. 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. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully.
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