“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. 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. Mr. CHAPTER XIV. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. We had no idea.
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