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. Up to dinner yesterday I did not expect to come to Canton. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Not at all. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat. It isn’t. This information was received by Jonathan with a lowering brow. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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