" Mr. “Oh. 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. "Constance—or, rather, Mrs. Speak lower. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. “Forty guineas a week. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. Other phrases returned now, like echoes.
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