“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. 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. “It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well.
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