If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. 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. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable.
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