In another instant, the collision took place. "What is this?" she wanted to know. Rousing himself, he went to the door. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. “Of course!” he said. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. 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. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch.
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