And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. 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. Marriage!—and no woman by to tell the child what it was! The shocks and disillusions she would have to meet unsuspectingly—and bitterly. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. Hill.
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