It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly. 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. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. "A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours.
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