The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. 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. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker.
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