" "For me!" vociferated Mrs. Don’t leave me. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. "Sir Cecil is no more. The little old lady struck like a projectile upon the resounding chest of the foremost of these, and then Ann Veronica had got past and was ascending the steps. 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.
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